


The Blade of the North

by drearyabi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, AU, Assassin AU, Assassin Sansa, Bisexual Sansa Stark, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Game of Thrones AU, Sansa Stark Deserves Better, sanrion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drearyabi/pseuds/drearyabi
Summary: This story starts, as many do, with a death...On the day the Lannisters take control of the Red Keep, Sansa Stark is swept away by an unlikely ally and saved from imprisonment, taking her on a path far from anything she's known before. The organisation known as The Blades awaits her in the East; an order of elite assassins with a bloody reputation for political intrigue and scandal.This is not the story you know, but one itching to be told - of kinship, slaughter and revenge. This no fairy tale of a lost princess, but a warning to all who stand between a girl and vengeance.I do not own the Game of Thrones or ASOIAF universe
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Original Character(s), Tormund Giantsbane/Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark, Yara Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

This story starts, as many do, with a death—the death of a King, to be precise. The entire realm held its breath as the warrior-turned-glutton released his last. The candle guttered out, and with it, the life of one Eddard Stark was drawn to an abrupt close. 

The King’s hand marched through the halls of the keep, moving as quickly as he could, despite the limp in his step. He was still healing, still in desperate need for some wine to soothe the pain and at least a week with his leg resting, yet there he was, bursting in the great hall, clutching a paper in hand and locking eyes with a lioness. 

He was not intimidated by Cersei Lannister, but Eddard knew better than to underestimate her. He’d warned her to leave, yet here she was, standing proudly behind her son, who lounged across the throne like it had been his all his life. Beside her were her two other children, all fair, all adorned in the finest gowns and all sickeningly blonde. He wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Not one child bared any resemblance to their supposed father, in appearance or nature. The two youngest were too quiet and quick to dash behind their mother’s skirts while the eldest, the sneering Joffrey Baratheon, was just as Ned imagined Lord Tywin had been in his youth. 

He marched on, a slight glint in his eye that an observer could mistake for ambition. It was not that, but instead, the glee of knowledge. He held three pieces of information, certain that he was the only one in the realm who knew all of them but eager to have them out and off of his shoulders.

Firstly, the paper in his hand dictated that he would serve as Protector of the throne and see in the King’s heir. Secondly, the Goldcloaks were ready and had been paid handsomely to assist in this. And lastly, the knowledge that had cost lives- none of those ahead of him had any right to the throne, and he was about to let the entire realm know. Ned Stark stopped before the throne, gritted his teeth, and began. 

It was a cool and pleasant day in King’s Landing. The gardens blossomed in the deep oranges of reds of autumn, but the air was still warm enough to give the illusion of summer. Those not in the throne room lingered freely around the keep but started from that daydream as the very air around them shifted into a thick, choking fog. 

As the knife was brought to Eddard Stark’s throat, all he could think of were his two daughters, still in the keep somewhere, utterly oblivious but in the gravest danger. Arya would be at her dance lessons, he knew, so he could at least hope she would be well looked after. But it was his eldest daughter that concerned him. She was no fighter and did not surround herself with any either. If the keep fell upon them, she would be one of the first to go under. 

He was right that Arya Stark at that very moment was training with her dance teacher. She had been water-dancing for almost an hour now and was beginning to feel the aches in her arms and back, but Syrio would shout if she slowed, so she carried on until they heard the distinct rumble of feet drawing towards them. 

Yet, this isn’t her story. It is an interesting one – of fear and desperation, of friends and enemies, valour and deception – but it is one we leave here, as Lannister guards approach the training room, searching for the little wolf and her master. We shall return to her later but at the present moment... 

Sansa Stark walked in step with her Septa. Septa Mordane had accompanied her on a walk of the grounds, soaking in the sun and enjoying the sweet breeze before they would return for her lessons and then dinner with her father. Sansa was tiring of her Septa, enduring long hours of her incessant talking, and said little as they walked, thinking instead of visiting the Queen tomorrow and picking out a dress in her head for the occasion. 

The bells had been ringing since the King had died, and their unrelenting clanging had driven the keep half-insane, but they were beginning to get used to the sound. Yet, the call seemed to become more urgent from one ring to the next, as they rang faster in a great, swelling din. _Something's happening._ The Septa had felt the same shiver pass through her and reached a bony hand to grasp at Sansa’s arm. They kept walking but picked up the pace, the Septa’s grip tightening as they sped up, both silent and composed. _The keep is under attack._

The noise came from behind. The rattling of armour as men passed around the corner, first walking almost jovially, then shouting out and breaking into a run. They knew they’d been seen, and Sansa and Septa Mordane had no choice but to pick up their skirts and run too, slippers slapping against the hard stone tiles. Sansa knew she was going faster than the older woman, being younger and taller. The Septa realised this too and, as the sound of metal and men’s calls grew louder, the hand broke away from Sansa’s arm, and Septa Mordane shouted at her to carry on, lost in the sudden wash of guards. 

So, she went on, beating her feet against the ground and hurtling around the corner. Nothing made any sense to her, but she was not thinking, only running. Later she would mourn for her Septa who had left her side and, as she was told, lost her head, but for now, her only thoughts were on what awaited her ahead, which, in this case, happened to be another group of guards. 

Their backs were turned to her, laughing between themselves, and she skidded to her halt, holding her breath. It was her shoes that betrayed her. As she stopped, one squeaked against the floor, and ten pairs of eyes fell upon her, hungry animals stumbling upon their prey. Their laughter dried up; they were hunters once more. 

_Why am I running?_ She had no idea. These were _Lannister_ men, who so far had been nothing but courteous to her. She had nothing to fear from the Lannisters; _I’m_ _to marry Joffrey!_ She shook her head for being so foolish and opened her mouth to apologise for running away. 

“I-augh!” 

Her words came out as nothing more than a garbled gasp as a gauntleted hand seized hold of her neck and practically threw her out of the way. Then, her legs were moving, feet picking up of their own accord as a hand grasped her wrist in an iron grip and dragged her through an archway just before the men behind her caught up. 

They ran. Sansa hadn’t enough time to recover from the abrupt bout of sprinting, but now she was at full speed again, darting along corridors, twisting along stairs, and jumping down steps. She kept her eyes down, watching her feet in case she tripped, but had caught a glimpse of the figure that had taken hold of her – he was tall, covered in a deep blue cloak, and the sound of metal as they moved told her he was well armoured. Now and again, a sword flashed from his free hand towards someone moving in their way. She didn’t have a chance to see who it was or consider where they were going. All she knew is that they were in the keep one moment, and the next they weren’t. 

They’d come to a sudden stop in a dark arch a few feet from the Blackwater river that snaked through the city. Under cover of the keep above, the man released her arm and caught his breath, while Sansa bent over and vomited up her breakfast. Her head spun at an alarming speed, and she had to fight to stay standing. 

As she keeled over, the man had dropped several things to the ground then she felt him move behind her and a gloved hand patted her back almost tenderly. A square of cotton was produced for her, and she wiped at her mouth before hesitantly standing upright and pushing her hair from where it had fallen in her face. 

“Who are-” she faced the stranger head-on. She did not need to think hard to conjure up his name; she had recognised him on the journey South, and now, as the ground settled around her, she could do the same. “Ser Barristan?” 

The decorated knight and Kingsguard appeared an aged man from a distance, with a shock of white hair and a beard too match. Yet, up close, his face was a picture of youth. There were still lines of age across his forehead and his eyes crinkled at the edges, but he was alert and bright, just as spritely and quick as his brothers half his age. While she fought to catch her breath, he had only a slight reddening of the cheeks, as if they’d just jogged between rooms, not throughout the entire keep. 

Sansa watched the knight meticulously take items out of a bag. He drew out a large dark cloak, several easy-concealed daggers, and a smaller bag that rang with the sound of money. A gloved hand reached out towards her and, with a murmur of thanks, she accepted the cloak and bag. 

“You’ve been betrayed, the Lannisters have taken your father prisoner.” He spoke rapidly, returning to his bags. 

“Imprisoned?” Her head, bent in an inspection of the gifts, shot up, “for what?” 

“Treason, my Lady. I shall explain as we move, but you should put those on.” 

“No.” She straightened her back and fixed him with a glare. “You’re lying. The Lannisters would never do that. My father is Hand of the King. Are you trying to ransom me?” She’d read enough stories of kidnapped princesses to know how such crimes were handled. 

“Your father tried to remove the Lannisters, that’s why they took him.” He sighed. “I was there, but there was nothing for me to do.” Sansa heard genuine shame in his voice. She could sense his conflict, as well. Barristan Selmy was a member of the Kingsgaurd, sworn to defend the King, but Robert had died, and now Joffrey would be assuming his place. Here he was, taking her away, and leaving his King and sacred oaths behind. 

“You knew it would happen?” She draped the smaller satchel over her shoulder and covered it all with the dark woollen cloak. By all the bags he had prepared, the money and weapons and clothes, she couldn’t believe this was a sudden flight. 

“Not quite, but your father was afraid of you being taken by the Lannisters. He thought they might use you as leverage.” He stood up, slung a bag over his own shoulder and reached up to pull her hood well over her face. 

“What about Arya?” Her voice quietened, thinking of her sister in her enemy’s grasp. 

“He wasn’t as concerned about her; she was with her dance-master, the Bravvosi swordsman. All of this was only in case of the very worst, which he didn’t expect. I expect he had something else planned for her.” 

Sansa sat back on the heels of her feet and thought it all over. She had last seen her father that morning as he ate a rushed handful of food before running off to arrange something or other. She could not imagine him chained up, the court turning against him. _He’s Hand, they should respect him._ She couldn’t imagine the Queen turning on him either. Cersei Lannister had always been sweet to her and was the picture of royalty and grace. Sansa knew, however, that she had to be at the centre of it, with her brothers elsewhere and father in the West. Ser Barristan had said it was the work of the Lannisters, and she was the only Lion around for miles. 

“What will you do?” She whispered. The knight took a hand to her back and led her from their concealment and through an unused path that took them along the river and out into the city. 

“That depends.” His eyes flicked across every face they passed, and his hand on her back was firm, guiding her but ready to seize her if necessary. “If your father is released, you may be free to go back with him. But if not-” He trailed off a moment, to spare her feelings, but she knew what he meant. Treason was a serious accusation and one punishable by death. If he was found guilty, he could only be saved by a plea to go to the Wall. She tried not to think of it, but her mind flashed with images of Ned Stark chained up, then on the headman’s block, or else haggard and frost-covered in the Night’s Watch. 

“And till then?” She ventured, not knowing exactly how long such a decision would take. Barristan had not seemed confident when saying ‘if’ her father was released, and she wondered if the decision had been made before he’d even been imprisoned. She couldn’t think of that either. If there was nothing they could do, and her father’s fate was sealed – what was the point of holding any hope at all? 

“I have friends in the city.” The city streets were busy but oblivious to what was happening in the keep above them. Even Sansa was not certain exactly what that was, but by the look of glee in the Lannister guard’s faces, she could guess as much. She nodded quickly and carried on without another word. 

The everyday traffic was thinning out, and they turned down a series of back roads that lead them to lines of houses, not the slums of the poorest parts of the city, but neither the palaces of the wealthiest who lived near the Dragonpits. It was outside one of these clean but worn houses that they finally stopped, sweating under the afternoon sun and feet blistering from the long walk. The knight did not knock on the front door, but lead her straight around the back into a small patch of vegetables, rapping his knuckle instead on the shabby backdoor. They waited there for several moments in uncomfortable silence before a rumble of feet coming downstairs indicated Ser Barristan’s ‘friend’ had arrived. The door creaked open just enough for a head to squeeze out and look over them both. 

“Selmy.” It was a man of middling age and no distinct qualities. He was dark of hair, with equally dark eyes but a broad mouth upturned in a slight smile. The man ushered them both inside into the semi-darkness of a hall with no windows, closing the door heavily behind them. He brushed past them and led them upstairs into a sitting room connected to a small kitchen where a door indicated what Sansa supposed was a bedroom. At a table, a woman spoke in a hushed tone to a young boy, a copy of the man, her eyes darting upwards at the groan of the floorboards. 

“Ah, it is you.” She uttered, standing up and wordlessly having the boy leave them. In the floured gown and apron of a baker, she approached them, running her hand through a reddish blonde mop of hair that had escaped its starched white cap. “Your letter was so vague. We didn’t know when to expect you, if at all.” 

“So, it happened then, the Lord Hand he-” The man piped up, joining his wife’s side. 

“Charged with treason, yes.” He nodded gravely. He then turned to her, forcing a smile. “Lady Sansa, this is Lucas and his wife, Myra. We fought together against the insurrection.” 

_That’s right,_ Sansa recalled, _Ser Barristan fought on the side of the_ _Targaryens_ _, not with Robert’s rebellion._ As a high-ranking knight, he’d been pardoned, but the stain could not be so easily shifted. 

“He saved my life,” Lucas grinned, “got me pardoned for treason. Told him on that day I owed him big, said any day he could ask of me a favour, and I’d do it, no questions.” 

“And here we are.” Barristan looked fondly at the couple, yet there was a haze in his eyes that Sansa couldn’t ignore. Perhaps he had thought the favour would never be called in, or that it would be for something far more pleasant than this. 

“It’s an honour to have you in the house, m’lady.” Myra curtseyed and her husband followed suit. For Sansa, there was no honouring involved, only desperation. Still, she nodded her thanks and enquired after the boy, who had reappeared as a head peeking from a backroom. 

“That’s Jonah.” She smiled faintly before excusing herself to busy with the cupboards. 

_Jon_. The name was clearly different, and the boy looked nothing like her bastard brother, yet the image of Jon Snow flitted around in her mind, and her stomach tightened in longing for home. She caught onto Barristan’s arm. 

“I must write to my family. Robb and my mother should know, my brother Bran in Winterfell too, and Jon at the Wall.” 

“There’s no need.” He met her gaze. “News will reach all of them soon enough, I’m sure. I doubt Lady Catelyn and your Robb will take it well either.” He stepped forward and moved to help Myra lifting some pots from above her cupboards. 

“Do you think there’ll be war?” She fiddled with the hem of her cloak. 

“There’s already war, for your mother taking Tyrion Lannister captive. Doubtless though that it will only get worse now. If your father is treated well, we just might have a chance to see the realm saved from all-out war but, even then, who knows how the Northern Lords will react.” 

“The North remembers.” She repeated the strange saying sullenly. It was never a phrase that she understood, but it was said so often that it might have been the Stark words. Yet, thinking of the proud Northern Lords she had seen come to Winterfell, she wondered if it was so strange. She couldn’t see them forgiving any mistreatment of her father easily. There would have to be reparations, yet Lannisters were proud as well, maybe even more so. She knew only as much about the houses of the realm as she’d learnt in her lessons, but she could follow the concern in the knight’s voice and the unease looks shared by husband and wife. The realm had been free from war for many years, almost as long as she’d lived, and the last rebellion, held by the Greyjoy’s was put to a swift end. She imagined this to be different. Common men had been content with peace, yet powerful Lords had grown fitful. Her brothers had been trained to fight, and now the chance to prove themselves lingered on the horizon, she couldn’t picture them turning it down. 

Sansa remained with Lucas, Myra and Jonah for the next week as dribbles of news reached them. She learnt a lot about the family. Lucas worked for a fisherman, gutting and preparing the day’s catch to be sold to the harbour's inns and brothels. Myra worked in the bakery below their house while their son trotted off every morning to the local Sept school. Sansa and Ser Barristan remained inside, playing cards and exchanging stories to keep their mind’s active. Then, when Lucas returned home, the family would huddle around the kitchen table, and he’d tell them of his day, which was mostly filled with the gossip he’d heard from the sailors and merchants he mingled with. With the extra guests staying with them, he took his role much more seriously and returned each evening with reams of news to share, information he’d been sure to verify with his most reputable sources. Sansa learned of the majority of her household's dire fate, of her father’s imprisonment in the black cells and of the demands sent away to her mother and brother, demanding they bend the knee to see Eddard Stark released. 

Then finally, she received the news she’d been dreading. 

Lucas had returned home later than usual, and just as they began to fear something had happened to him, he burst into the room, his face a sickly pale, screwing up the hat in his hands. Myra had gone to him immediately and pulled him over to the chair where he’d sat slowly, his eyes fixed on Sansa. 

“They’re going to execute him, Ned Stark.” He managed, shaking his head. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about. There’re notices on the walls, heralds shouting the news. I’d hoped it was just talk but-” 

“When, where?” Ser Barristan interrupted; his tone unusually sharp. 

“Tomorrow, at midday, on the steps outside the Sept of Baelor.” 

“Then that’s when we’ll leave. There’ll be too many people on the streets for the guards to notice the pair of us slip out. We can go early to find a ship willing to take us.” 

Sansa was silent. She could hear Ser Barristan speaking, his commanding tone echoing through her head, but his words meant nothing to her. All she could think of was Lucas’ news. _They’re going to execute him. Tomorrow. Weren’t they meant to give Robb a chance to come for_ _him?_ _Was there no trial? Did he speak for himself?_

Ser Barristan was still talking, outlining his plans and thanking their hosts for all they had done. 

“No.” 

He turned to her. “What?” 

She pressed her lips tightly together and contained herself. “I won’t leave my father here to die. There must be something we can do to stop it.” A thought came to her. “Let me go to the keep and speak for him, plead for him. I was promised to Joffrey; perhaps he will be merciful, perhaps-” 

“There is not an ounce of mercy in that boy’s body.” His voice was curt. “He is a vile little creature, and your father declared him an incestual bastard. I can’t see him do anything but see him executed. And if you go back to that place, you won't be coming back out.” He sighed and placed his hand lightly atop hers. “I’m sorry, Sansa, but the best we can do is get you East and out of their hands. It’s what your father charged me to do.” 

She pulled away. “East?” In her mind, the East was nothing more than an amalgamation of stories. The Free Cities and their riches seemed fresh from the tales of ancient kingdoms with their strange, fantastical animals, foreign language and endless summer. She could not picture herself there any more than she could picture Arya in a fine gown. “I must go to my mother and brother. They will keep me safe.” 

“It is too much of a risk, my Lady.” He warned. “News of your father’s execution will travel faster than we can, there’ll be fighting before we can get to your brother’s camps. We can stay a while in Essos until it is safe to return you home.” 

“And my sister?” She bit back tears. _Where could Arya be? Is she still in the keep?_ _Or did she slip away again?_ It wouldn't be the first time. 

“We must assume there is a plan for her too.” 

She stood from the table, her chair squeaking as she pushed it back. Hot tears were spilling from her cheeks that burned bright crimson. “I will not go with you to the East. I will not leave my family to be killed while I do nothing.” She glanced between them all, finding only looks of sympathy that made her feel sick. “Goodnight.” She left the table with a flick of her skirts and fell heavily onto the make-shift bed of straw that had been set up for her in a storage room. She beat her fist heavily against the floor, drawing blood, and soaked her blankets in tears until sleep, finally, took hold. 

“Wake up.” Someone was shaking her by the shoulder. She groaned and groggily forced herself upon the low bed, internally wincing for her aching neck and back and her night of what felt like just seconds of sleep. She’d been thinking of her father, trying not to picture him in front of the Great Sept but finding it impossible. Every distraction brought her back to gallows, or the axeman or the last thing her father had said to her – which, now awake, she couldn’t recall. 

Ser Barristan lingered above her, already dressed and strapped into his plate. His eyes were just as bagged and bloodshot as she expected to see in the mirror. Wordlessly, she rose and changed into the gown she’d worn when they’d fled the Red Keep. It was a particularly nice dress, a satin-violet, embellished with roses at the neck, each individually sewn with little leaves she had found most charming. Now, however, the dress had spent several days soaking in a murky basket in the corner of the room, pulled out sopping and, most distinctly, a deep grey, almost black. 

She pulled it on and covered herself in the sweeping cloak; hood pulled to disguise most of her face and the redness of her hair that was pinned tightly back in a simple braid. She caught a glimpse of herself in a dusty looking-glass and hardly recognised the figure staring back at her. She was devoid of all colour, dress and cloak dark, hair kept back and face a deathly pale. _At least they won't recognise me, not until I need them to._

When she was called, she slipped into the main rooms, where all were assembled near the door. Myra, Lucas and Jonah were huddled in the corner, their faces darkened by the cloud that hung over their house. She thanked them each in turn, accepting Myra’s fierce embrace and tearful goodbyes, before turning to Ser Barristan, who had been waiting with an edge of impatience. 

“Here.” He reached into a satchel across his shoulder, one similar to the one she wore now, and retrieved a leather slip from which he drew a dagger with a simple black hilt and sleek, freshly honed, blade. He handed it forward and bid her take it. “Just in case.” He smiled faintly as she dropped it in her bag without a word. She’d never been given such a thing and found herself at a loss. When Arya had been gifted her skinny sword, she’d been ecstatic, boasting about all the things she would do with it. Yet, this weapon was not a sweet parting present, nor a ceremonial blade with a rich history to hang neatly on a wall. It was a weapon, made for use, and given because the world outside was a dangerous, unwelcoming place. 

“Good luck, Lady Sansa, Ser,” Lucas called out as a hand on her back ushered her towards the door and down the stairs. “May the Gods go with you.” 

“And you!” She called up as they rounded the corner and found themselves in a small unkempt garden. Ser Barristan wasted no time in marching her around the house and back into the streets, in the open for the first time since her father was taken prisoner. 

The harbour still buzzed with life, even with the planned execution across the city. That didn't mean they were saved from talk of it. Eddard Stark might as well have been sending there beside them, for all she heard was his name. They dodged the crowds swarming around each boat, the lines of men heading towards the inns, and the young vendors with their fresh catches and trinkets. It was easy, you understand, for Sansa to slip away, unnoticed. Ser Barristan had been haggling with a trader over some dried meats and bread for their trip and, while he was momentarily distracted, she stepped away into a group of what she only later realised were whores walking the shore, and left out the other end. She kept at a brisk pace, heading back in the direction they had come in, and cursed every time she had to stumble and stop, nearly tripping over a cart or sending a young boy flat on his back. She sent her apologies behind her but had no time to stop and explain herself. The sun was already high in the sky, and she knew her time was running out to reach the Sept. 

When she was finally free of the throng of the harbour, she picked up her skirts and ran. She didn’t know the streets well, but in the distance, she could spot the three hills of the city cresting above rows of ramshackle buildings. All she needed was to keep going in that direction and, apart from some wrong-turns that led her into backstreets and dead-ends, she soon found herself joining the general flow of people heading up to see the spectacle. 

She cursed every one of them. They walked casually, murmuring and laughing between themselves as if this was the norm. She heard her father’s name bouncing around, accompanied by titters of laughter and derisive sighs. It was enough to see and hear that as she walked silently amongst them, but she nearly lost her self when she realised the number of small children stepping in line with over-zealous parents. _How could they bring their child to a murder?_ Then she recalled the tournament held in her father’s name. She had sat there with her Septa and watched a young knight gorged through a fault in his plate and choke to death on his own blood. Her brothers had gone with her father to see him perform executions, mostly on Night’s Watch turn-cloaks, but she’d always supposed those men deserved it, and her brothers were being taught a lesson. She sniffed hard and walked a moment with her eyes closed. _They all think he’s guilty. They’re not here to fight the charges, or give him support, but stand with the_ _Lannisters_ _as if they’ve ruled them for years and not barely two weeks._ When she opened her eyes, she came to a sudden stop, finding a short, oily man planted firmly in front of her. They’d reached the steps. 

Erected before them was a high platform, currently standing empty but for a selection of ornate chairs and a block of wood with a half-moon cut out of one side. She’d never seen a headsman’s block in person, but she knew it by sight. Ignoring the groans and insults thrown her way, she pushed onward in the crowd, stopping only when the people were so packed together, it was impossible to pass. Though she begged those in front to let her pass, they only turned to her and shook their heads. 

“If you wanted to get any closer, you should’ve come earlier. I’ve earnt these places.” 

Sansa mumbled lowly under her breath but said nothing and moved a little to the left to try her luck again. Once more, she was looked upon with only irritation and quickly ignored. She looked up -she could see enough of the platform, bar the tops of a few heads, but it was not how much she could see that she was worried about, _she_ needed to be seen. 

The sound of trumpets from behind brought the crowds to an instant quiet, although they continued to whisper between themselves, making giddy comments. Heads held high and eyes fixed above the crowds, the King’s Council entered first and took their places, followed by Ser Illyn Payne, the mute axeman, and finally Cersei Lannister and her eldest son, the King. Sansa could not help but smile as he passed into her view. She remained certain this was his mother’s doing and that he was following her commands. Joffrey was supposed to be her beloved, not her enemy. She stretched her neck further upwards as the assembled party settled in their positions. 

_Where’s Arya?_ She had expected to see her sister among them, paraded as their prisoner and forced to watch the proceedings – yet Cersei had come alone. Her mind flicked to the men who had tried to seize her at the Keep. She’d assumed they would take her prisoner, but then she heard their japes and the sound of their swords as they were drawn. She wondered if she was ever meant to live at all and if that meant- 

They were talking above her, welcoming the crowds, calling on them for silent and evoking the power of the gods and Baelor the blessed to look over them. _They wouldn’t kill him on the stairs to the Sept, before Baelor’s statue?_ It felt like heresy or a sickening joke that no man who truly worshipped the Gods would appreciate. _This must be for show; they wouldn’t dare displease the Gods by spilling blood on sacred land._ A momentary calmness swept over her, almost making her miss the sudden outbreak of cries and commotion behind her. 

_Father._

Eddard Stark looked half the man she remembered him to be. Visibly thinner, his beard and hair shaggy and his clothes limp and soiled. He’d been stripped of his mighty sword Ice and was being half-dragged along by two Lannister guards who attempted, poorly, to shield him from the grabbing hands of the peasants. Sansa stared lifelessly at her father, as he continued with the steel resolution of the Starks. He looked dreadful, and yet men, women and child lurched forward just to make it worse, to rip his tunic or splatter shit across his shoes. Sansa could not place their rage. Had the city not mere months ago held a tournament for their new Hand? Had they not hooted for him in the streets when they first arrived in the city? Not one person knew who he was or the truth of his treason, yet every-one had joined together in a writhing mass of hatred, spewing their foul words like venom. 

Even when he reached the centre of the platform, a sharp rock hurtled forward and met him squarely in the forehead. She could not contain her shout as he stumbled backwards, and her stomach turned as he swayed on his feet. But he regained his standing, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was not over yet, and he wasn’t going to be executed on such holy ground- _this is all a show for the masses, Ser Barristan was wrong. He’ll be released, and we can go home together and -_

She didn’t know what would happen next. Robb was already at war, and the Lannisters had made their position against him clear. They would have to find Arya, she knew, but after that? 

Then, when the crowd had been hushed once more, came the charges drawn against him, each one eliciting greater boos and hisses. She ignored them. _It will be over soon._ As the Grand Maester finished, Joffrey jumped from his throne and stood before his people, smiling broadly and taking a second to bask in their reverence. At last, he cleared his throat and looked towards his capture, hands bound, and flanked by two guards. 

“My mother has begged me to spare the traitor’s life-” sounds of disgust, “- and my council members have advised me to let him join the Night’s Watch, or live his life in exile.” 

_I was right. I won’t even have to show myself. This is all a performance for the sake of..._

_“_ But.” He breathed slowly, taking his time as every eye followed him, every person hanging on his every word. “I am King, and why should I listen to weak-willed women and Eunuchs? Lord Stark is a traitor who wished to take the crown from me! I am King! If I don’t kill him now, what’s to stop any ambitious fool trying the same?” His golden curls bounced as he turned his head. “Ser Illyn?” 

She had remained shock-still as he had spoken, waiting for the joke to come, but knowing it never would. As the crowd raged around her, she found her mind empty, eyes staring ahead unblinkingly, hoping only that her father would meet them and know- 

Ser Illyn Payne stepped forward, and as his great boot thundered on the wooden platform, something sparked inside of her. Like an explosion, energy spread to every limb, and before she could think ahead, she was pushing past the frenzied crowd, screaming as loud as she could, begging to be heard. The blood-crazed mob was always louder, always larger than her, and the axemen continued forward as Eddard Stark was forced to his knees and his head was laid against the block. Sansa raised her hand, shaking it frantically, trying desperately to draw anyone towards her. She threw back her hood and called out their names, but all were too engrossed by the longsword rising above them all, its steel catching the light beautifully. _Ice._

A hand clamped over her eyes and another on her mouth. The crowd had fallen silent. A flock of birds cried out as it flew, disturbed, from its roost. 

Sansa didn’t say a word as they marched back through the streets that filled once more with people returning to their lives, muttering endlessly about what they’d seen. With a firm hand on her back one more, she continued, focusing only on the path directly ahead of her, not on the voices, or the heat, or the fact her father had just been- 

“What were you thinking?” The knight hissed between his teeth. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t find the words, and frankly, she didn’t believe they existed. _What was I trying to achieve? Did I think they’d listen to me? Let me say my piece, and they’d drop the charges?_ From what Barristan had told her, her father had questioned Joffrey’s lineage and openly declared his support for Stannis Baratheon as King – that was treason. No negotiation could save him, and certainly nothing she could muster. 

Then again... _how could they have done it before Baelor?_ She couldn’t imagine the Faith would be pleased with that choice, and then there were the Northmen. Eddard Stark was Warden of the North, known and respected far and wide, and now he’d been slaughtered in the South, by a house already fighting against his son. _Did Joffrey mean to make war? Or is he just a fool?_ For a brief second, she’d seen Cersei Lannister’s face contort in sudden disapproval, calling out to her son to rethink. Sansa had not been taught the ways of war and diplomacy, but even she could see that keeping a hostage alive tended to be better than killing them. If there was a way for the war to end peacefully and swiftly, that was gone now. Robb would be furious, her mother would be devastated, and she didn’t want to think of her younger siblings, Rickon still the baby of the family, and stripped from his father so soon. Tears were rolling down her cheeks; she didn't bother to wipe them away. 

Sansa walked on as her head buzzed with thoughts. At odd moments, she heard a strange noise, a sticky door being forced open, the cry of a surprised hound, a box falling to the stones, and she heard another sound – the soft hum as her father’s sword cast a perfect arch of light in the sky. Ser Barristan’s hands over her eyes and ears had saved her from the worst of it, but she could fill in the details, and she had, however much she tried not to. When those sounds came back, she clenched her hand into a fist until her nails drew blood on her palm and kept walking, for there was nothing else to do. 

“Fuck.” Ser Barristan cursed under his breath. They’d reached the harbour once more, sweating and out of breath, only to find the ship Ser Barristan had meant to travel East on had left port and was nothing more than a speck on the horizon. He looked upon her, as if to launch into a tirade of anger, but calmed himself. He was a kindly man, she had seen, wise and soft of heart, and she didn’t blame him for almost taking it out on her. _I was a fool, the greatest fool in the realm. I should’ve stayed with him. I should’ve-_

“Here? Not for a week or so, I’m afraid. There are lodgings in some of the taverns on the front if you need the rooms?” Ser Barristan had fallen into conversation with a local vendor, his cart of fine laces and silks facing the harbour perfectly. 

“Thank you.” He replied stiffly, clearly disappointed but not failing to drop a few coins into the man’s hand. “Come on.” He hurried her away, careful not to use her name or linger too long in plain view. Nearly tripping, Sansa quickly caught up, pulling her hood over her face and letting her legs carry her forward. In her dark clothes and heavy cloak, the heat was close to unbearable, but she refused to complain. Arya had always been the one to complain, and their mother had never ceased to berate her for bad manners. It wasn’t until they stopped outside some stables that Sansa felt her weakness and had to hold onto a wooden pole plank to keep herself upright. She fought the urge to lift her hood and fan the heat from her face. 

Ser Barristan went inside with a hefty bag of coin and left some minutes later, the owner by his side, pointing out several of his horses and telling tales of their strengths, stamina, or legendary pedigree. She could tell from her vantage point that Barristan didn’t believe a word he said, but still, he counted out a handful of silver coins into the man’s hand, and a stableboy appeared from another stall to bridle and ready the horses. 

“You can ride, I presume?” He sidled next to her as they waited. 

“Yes.” Her voice quivered a little, but she masked it with a slight cough. She chose not to tell him how much she detested riding. 

“Here.” He unstrapped a skin from his sword-belt, opened it, and handed it to her. She thanked him with a nod, and hastily threw her head back to drink the sweet, cold wine inside. "We can't stay here another night. I can't put Lucas and Myra in any more danger. We'll ride to Maidenpool, test out luck there."

Once she’d had her fill, she handed the skin back, and before she had the chance to reply, the young, red-haired stable boy jumped forward and announced the horses were ready. Another coin was parted with, and two mares were led out, the largest, a rich brown and the other, speckled black and white. 

A stool was presented and the boy, not much older than her, held it his hand to help her mount. Already feeling unsteady, she took it and thanked his profusely while Ser Barristan hopped on the darker horse without a second thought. He shouted back his final thanks and with a direction to her and a pull of the reins, they once again took up the city streets, this time moving a little faster and forcing people out of the way. 

Eventually, however, they fell into pace with the walkers and joined a long queue, mostly traders, heading out of the city. Far in front of them, also on horseback, Goldencloaks stopped every cart and every passerby, lifting hoods and searching goods. A few, unable to provide the right vendor’s papers, were turned away and were seen marching solemnly in the other direction. Sansa’s knuckles grew white around the reins. _If they lift my cloak, they’ll know who I am, and they’ll know Ser Barristan by sight alone. What is he thinking?_ But then went on in the slow procession forward under the never-ending heat. 

As they passed under the scrutinising eye of the Goldencloaks, Sansa felt her whole body stiffen as she inhaled and held a great breath. 

“Selmy!” A voice cried out. One of the mounted soldiers rode out to meet them by the gate, a grin visible beneath his golden helmet. “I’d heard you’d ran off somewhere, what happened?” His tone was not that of a simply curious man. The question was loaded with suspicion. 

“Business for the King.” He replied simply, gesturing towards her. 

“Ah.” He nodded his head, and his eyes darted briefly across to her. She smiled faintly. “Who is she?” 

“Afraid I can’t say. Look here.” From his satchel, he produced a rolled parchment sealed in gold wax with a crowned stag sigil. The soldier took it, broke the seal, and read over it quickly, mouthing the words as he went. When he’d reached the bottom, he mumbled to himself, nodded and passed it back. 

“Well, good luck to you.” The Goldencloak turned to face his peers. “Let them pass: royal business.” Obligingly, those barring the gates stepped aside bowing slightly as they passed. They rode out farther until the lines of traders trying to get into the city had thinned, and they could stop by the side of the road. 

“What did it say?” Sansa gestured towards his satchel where the parchment was now safely stored. 

“Royal decree – gives us free passage. Stamped by Joffrey’s own hand.” He shrugged heavily armoured shoulders. 

“How is that possible?” She couldn’t imagine Joffrey approving anything that gave her any kind of freedom. 

“Well, there was chaos when your father was arrested. People were all over the place. If one piece of parchment was sealed in the council rooms, who would know?” He smirked softly, amused at himself. 

“You wrote it back then?” She had known nothing of the many plots put in place on that one day, but everyone else seemed to know it all. 

“Not me, your father. He knew what would be written were it real.” 

_My father? My father, Ned Stark? My father-_

“May I?” 

“Of course.” Without another word, he retrieved the parchment again and leant over to her. The seal now broken, it unravelled easily in her hands, and she followed her father’s hand across the page. The King signed it, but that was a forgery, by the few ink stains and the curl of his letter ‘e’, she knew it was Eddard Stark’s writing. _It is my father’s writing. My father’s. My father._

_My father is dead._

The day fell on her like a brick, her head spun, the world shook, and as she slumped into her saddle and tumbled to the ground, she saw her father’s blade again as it danced in the air. _Ice._ The sun had rippled so brilliantly against the Valyrian steel just before it- 

_My father is dead. My sister is missing. My mother and Robb are marching to war. My brothers have been left behind. And I’m here._ It was a strange sensation, hitting the floor. It was not painful, as she had expected, nor did it feel like anything at all. The feint had numbed her from the pain, and instead, she felt a certain bliss pass over her. _I’m here. The_ _Lannisters_ _would take me prisoner, but I will not be theirs. Ser Barristan saved me from that fate. My father saved me from that fate._

_He won’t regret it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from 1X09


	2. Chapter 2

It took mere hours for Sansa to recall just how much she hated riding. By just one afternoon in the saddle, she was aching, and as they continued down the King’s Road, her complaints only grew. She never said a word to Ser Barristan Selmy. He’d done enough for her  sake; she couldn’t bring herself to appear ungrateful. Thankfully, autumn had not yet stolen away the sun, so to spare the horses and themselves from the midday heat, they took regular breaks and ambled up the road to  Maidenpool . 

It was a short trip, Ser Barristan assured her as they set off for the first day of travelling. After her fall from the horse, she’d sunk into a haze and remained just alert enough to travel deeper into the Kingswood where they made camp. She’d risen wordlessly and accepted the proffered salted meat and cracker-bread. It was as she finished her meagre breakfast that she realised she had not eaten since the night before last. She’d been far too rushed to eat the morning before and hadn’t had the chance until they rested at which point, she returned to her stupor and slept. The world was no brighter when she awoke, nor did the food fill her to any extent, but she mounted the speckled mare when she was asked and set off, at least glad to have a task to focus on. 

The Kingswood was ideal for hunting and raving – some boughs wide and open, and others planted so close together, one could hardly ride through. The sun peeked in through the dense canopy above and lit the forest in ambers and vibrant greens that soon would fade to the browns and greys of winter. Her eyes had fallen on a particular tree, just a small one, but covered in moss in every shade. The next thing she saw was the knife drawn at her throat. 

Her mare had stopped abruptly with a huff of contention, and her head had spun around to find someone had ridden up and was lifting a blade towards her. Ser Barristan was on her other side and, from the corner of her eye, she saw his hand  snake down to his sword belt. When she got a chance to look around, she could see three others in their path, all men, all in tattered clothes and all fixing dark, beady eyes on her. Ser Barristan began to draw his sword. 

“You make a move, ser, and I’ll put a skewer in your prize.” The one closest to her drawled, moving the knife an inch closer. Sansa tensed. 

“Put it down and let us pass.” Barristan raised his voice. It was an impressive sound, and it reminded Sansa of a father berating his children – loud and commanding. “We have nothing to give you.” 

“Oh, I think you have one thing.” He looked her up and down and ran a tongue across sun-dried lips. “We take her, you stay where you are, and we don’t slit her pretty throat.” As he said it, the point of his blade ran along her clavicle. 

“You can take the horses if you wish, and we have some supplies.” 

The four of them chuckled sourly. 

“What do we need horses for?” the main bandit gestured backyards, “we’ve already got out own. We want the girl, and if we can’t have her, she dies.” He leant forward, eyes on her, and grasped her reins from her hands. She was held still by the knife and didn’t dare try and snatch them back. Her eyes darted sideways to Ser Barristan, her supposed protector, but she found him only looking between the group of them, his mind working but sitting just as still as she was. 

“Leave it, old man.” One of the others called out. “What do you want with such a young thing anyway?” One of them snorted loudly and received a smack on the arm for his interruption. Her reins were tugged, and her horse trotted onwards at speed with the bandit. Sansa craned to look backwards; he was no longer glazed over with thought, his eyes were fixed on her. 

“Be careful; she has a tendency to faint – don't want her breaking her neck in a fall.” The knight called out behind them. 

“I think I can handle one girl- stop!”

As he’d spoken, Sansa swung her head as far as she could away from her captor and his weapon, and leant over the side of her horse, falling in the hard-packed earth with a great thump. Broken branches and small, sharp rocks, dug into her, but she sat up quickly and shuffled on her back away, towards Ser Barristan who was rearing his horse and plunging, sword-first into battle. 

It was over in seconds. The stunned leader had been pierced through his navel by Ser Barristan, and the others were twitching on the ground before Sansa had even blinked. 

She looked to the knight. He was still beside the first bandit’s horse.  _ There’s no way he could’ve reached the others in time. Someone else killed them.  _ Now he looked back at her, coming to the same conclusion. He drew a finger to his lips, and she remained where she was on the forest floor. 

Horses crashed through the undergrowth, along with some feet, breaking the tree line and heading for the bodies on the ground. One, who was still gasping for breath, received a short, swift spear to the neck and struggled no more. When satisfied, they turned around and looked them down. Sansa pushed herself to her feet. 

“I know you!” She called out, indicating a rider at the centre. 

“Sansa Stark? Isn’t it!” He swung himself effortlessly from his horse and sauntered towards them, slipping away his sword as he did so. Behind him, another rider had dismounted and followed closely. He’d worn a hood, that had covered his bald head and  smiling eyes . She recognised him too. 

“Lord Beric,  Thoros of  Myr !” She brushed her skirts down. Sansa had not seen either man since shortly after her father’s tourney when they were sent away with a mix of North and South men to track down the Mountain and bring him to justice. Her companion, Jeyne, had fallen in love with the Lightning Lord at first sight as he rode in with his rust-coloured hair lifting in the breeze. Even now, Sansa could understand the appeal – tall, handsome and head of a house. Yet now, she noticed, he wore a dark leather patch across one eye. Still, he smiled broadly towards her and clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder. 

“You made it out of the city, eh? Good to hear. After all that’s happened, I can’t imagine going back in there, for all the wealth in the Red Keep.” Beric grinned. The fiery priest leant forward and mumbled something in his ear. The Lord’s face dropped. He looked behind, and the priest nodded gravely. Lord Beric faced her once again, pained. “I’m sorry to hear about your father. He was a brilliant man; he didn’t deserve it.” 

_ How could he know so soon, it was only yesterday? Only yesterday-  _ It did not feel like it had happened so recently. She could picture it all so clearly, every moment of the day before but, then again, it was like she hadn’t been there at all. The memories were not her own, and so she did not feel the pain herself, nor the grief, only sympathy for the poor girl with no father and no one to help her but a lone knight. 

Beric coughed a little. “Where are you heading? I’m sure you don’t want to stay in these woods too long.” 

“Maide-”

_ Maidenpool. That’s where Barristan wants to take me. Across to the east and far away from Westeros, from my family. It’s not right. They have to know I’m here. They have to. I have to see them.  _

_ “ _ North! I want to go North!” She cut Ser Barristan off and clutched Beric’s forearm. He looked over her with his one eye and looked towards the knight. 

“What were you going to say, ser?” 

“ Maidenpool .” Ser Barristan strode over and straightened himself out. “I shall be taking her to the harbour, not that it’s your business.” 

“It is my business if the Lady doesn’t want to go.” He reached a hand forward and turned her head to him. “What is it you want?”

“To go to my brother, at his camps. I don’t want to go to  Maidenpool , or go east.” She breathed sharply. “He is forcing me to go; he won’t let me see my mother and Robb.” 

Lord Beric looked to his priest behind and to the rest of his men looting the bandits’ corpses. He sighed. 

“We can take you to your brother’s camp. With these lot dead, there’s nothing more for us this far south.” He spoke to the rest of his men. “We’ll be heading to the  Riverlands , ask for Clegane along the way. He’s sure to have made his mark.” 

“I made an oath to her father-”

Beric turned on Barristan with a sharp look, even with just one eye. “I made my promises to Ned Stark, just like you, - I promised him Gregor Clegane’s head, but here we are. If you want the Lady to be safe, let her be with her family, wolves are better in a pack, and all that.” 

The knight of the  Kingsguard cursed under his breath, but after a lingering look of desperation aimed at Sansa, he sighed his assent. He pledged to travel with them and see her safely escorted if Lannister forces caught up with them. 

“You know you’re riding into battlegrounds?” He huffed as they rode together back towards Lord Beric’s camp. 

“Of course, we’ve been through them enough. But you’ll be safer with us than with just the two of you.”  Thoros of  Myr rode beside them. 

“We could be at  Maidenpool in just a few days of hard riding. How long till we reach the  Riverlands ?” Ser Barristan persisted. Sansa, riding just in front of them, was trying to ignore this talk and listen to the others leading, but their voices rose above all else. 

“With us? You get there when you get there- if you get there at all. You’re right, these are dangerous lands – but as far as I see it, folk still live here, still farm and go to market unless they’re driven out by force. We’ve got knights and Lords and a couple of well-meaning bastards, why can’t we do as the farmers and merchants must?” 

Ser Barristan went silent after this, and Sansa found the Lightning Lord had dropped out of his group ahead to ride beside her. She smiled faintly and thanked him once more for saving them. 

“Your knight would’ve got them if we hadn’t turned up.” He shrugged. “But it was good timing for your sake, getting you to your brother and such.” 

She nodded. “What brings you so far South. You said you were tracking the Mountain, why would he be here?” 

He chuckled. “Don’t worry; he’s not anywhere around here. We caught wind of the bandits nesting around here and decided to spring on them, see what they knew. All these bandits know each other, so we grabbed one yesterday, had him tell us anything he’d heard.”

“And-”

“Nothing much. They hadn’t seen him since we had. Anyway, we stayed to pick off the rest, which is when we saw them all together, trying to seize you.” 

_ Trying to make me their slave, and Gods know what else.  _

_ “ _ Thank you again.” 

He reached over and rested his hand on his shoulder, which she decided was some feat, given they were riding at a brisk pace. 

“Don’t thank me till you can see the tops of your brother’s tents.” 

The small hunting party reached the rest of the camp, sitting at the edge of the Kingswood, in the late afternoon and by the time they dismounted, each knew they would not ride again till the next day. Instead, Beric walked the newcomers around the camp, which was small and easily collapsed down to be moved at a moment’s notice, and ensured his companions knew Sansa was well-protected. Ser Barristan walked with them but said nothing and kept his eyes fixed ahead. After they had eaten around the warmth of a central fire, the knight excused himself with a mumble and left for his tent. Sansa looked after him, shrugged and returned her attention to the rest of the ‘Brotherhood without Banners’. 

After a time, Lord Beric took her side on an overturned log and threw an old bone into the fire. 

“Your old knight’s left you.” He held out his wineskin towards her; she shook her head. 

“He’s upset, I think. He won’t talk to me because I asked you for help. I didn’t mean to make him look bad, he helped me out of the city but-” she sighed, “that doesn’t mean he can take me where he wants for whatever reason.” 

The Lord took a swig. “He’s a good man, trying to do what’s best. I’m sure he’ll understand when he sees you off to your family. He means well.” 

Sansa smiled faintly. She couldn’t help feel bad for Ser Barristan.  _ I made it look like he’d kidnapped me, after all he’d done to see me safe, all he risked and sacrificed. Ladies are supposed to follow a knight's order, not rebel against them like – like Arya would.  _

Beric continued. “About your father. I knew the man, briefly. He was the best sort. He couldn’t stand the infighting and secrecy of court. Eddard Stark like things plain and simple – like justice. The Mountain tears up a village, we go to take his head. No agendas, just justice.” 

“You lost him, the first time?” 

“Clegane? He was more than any of us bargained for.” His face appeared grey by the warm oranges of the flames. She could tell something more was going unsaid, but she knew better than to delve into such things. As his bright eyes  gazed ahead, Lord Beric rubbed a spot on his abdomen and cleared his throat. “But we’ll be better prepared next time; he won’t know what’s struck him down before he’s hit the floor.” 

She smiled and nodded. Something about the thought of the mountain squirming on the floor, pinned down by the men sent by her father to kill him brought her a great sense of calm. Her father had spoken often of justice, of the laws of Gods and men that should govern all. She had never really understood what it meant, and no one had bothered to explain it to her. But this made sense. 

“I shall pray for your success.” 

“Thank you, Sansa.” He held out his flask again, and this time she accepted it and took a small, hesitant sip. The wine within was not as strong as she had expected, not much sharper than the watered-down wines she’d had at Winterfell. “How are you doing, since your father-”

Her hands tensed around the skin. It was the question she’d been dreading because it was  one she couldn’t answer. Sansa had grieved for weeks when Lady had to be killed. She’d wept and refused to leave the bed and screamed at anyone who tried. Yet, when Ser Barristan had bid her wake that morning, she’d done so without question, without force and had gone about her business in a quiet stupor. Sobs did not wrack her, nor did she think much of it at all. The tears wouldn’t come and the memories remained distant. She couldn’t understand it, but the feelings couldn’t even be forced.  _ I do not know how to mourn.  _

_ “ _ I’m fine.” She spoke quickly. It was not entirely a lie. She was fine. But it was that which worried her most of all.  _ I wish I could weep, but there is no time. “ _ I should get some rest, thank you, my Lord, once again.” She rose from the log, bowing her head towards him. He went to say something else, but she had taken off in the direction of her tent before he got the chance and was inside and alone before she released a long-held breath. 

_ I should cry now.  _ She was alone. A piece of material shielded her from the outside world.  _ No one would judge me for it. No one will think me foolish.  _ She sat cross-legged on the ground after she’d undressed to her shift, and remained there in silence for some time. Her head was empty. The thoughts of what she’d seen just the day before were too slick to stay put. They slipped out of her grasp. In the end, after she heard footsteps of the men retiring for the night, she lay her head down on the straw and brought the furs up to her chin. When she closed her eyes, there was only blackness. It was pitch-black and oddly heavy. The longer she stared into the nothingness, the more it weighed upon her. It pressed behind her eyes, down upon her shoulders, suffocating her in its emptiness. 

Her eyes flicked open. Light had turned the inside of her tent a greenish hue, and she could hear the sound of boots on grass. She had slept, almost without effort, and had not been haunted by dreams or memories – only by the lingering darkness. She  shivered; her tent was cold in the morning dew. There was no time to wrap herself in furs and remain idle. She rose, dressed, repacked her small satchel with her few belongings, and stepped into the sunlight, banishing the blackness, at least until she slept again. 

Her days past mechanically as she rode with the Brotherhood. She rose early, packed away her things and, with the rest of the camp dismantled, they began that day’s move north. They moved at a good pace, but she got enough chances to dismount and stretch her legs as Lord Beric stopped strangers on the  road or in villages and asked them what they knew of Gregor Clegane and his team of bandits. Mostly, they knew only the gossip and myths already well known to the Brotherhood, but sometimes they provided something new – where he was last raiding, a name of a bandit working for him, a hidden cave by the coast he was known to hide in. It was never anything concrete or recent enough to sway their path, but it built a picture of the Mountain that Beric found agreeable. Even if nothing was learnt, he remained in high spirits and made a point of keeping her company when Ser Barristan had retreated for the night. Selmy was growing more talkative by the day, but he still carried around an air of melancholy that grew whenever Sansa tried to speak with him. She had never truly upset a grown man before and found herself at a loss for how to fix it. 

They’d been riding for two weeks when a young squire came across them as they rested not far out of a town Beric had found particularly knowledgeable. Though of age to be a knight in his own right, the squire was known to  Thoros of  Myr and welcomed into the camp that night, taking a central next to Sansa around the fire. 

“What’re you doing up here?” The red priest leaned in, almost singing his curled beard. He jumped backwards and cackled. 

The squire, a man of ten and seven with nut-brown hair and of middling stature, laughed along with them. “I joined the Young Wolf in the  Riverlands . Ser  Archen’s kept me as his squire for half my life and still won’t consider making me a knight. I could beat that old shit into the dirt with my eyes closed by he still won’t do it. He supports the Lannisters, so I went over to the Tully’s. My mother worked for them in the keep while she lived, and I have no love for Lord Tywin or his lot.” 

“Here, here!” One man shouted, following by a smattering of cheers. 

“You’re a bit away from the Riverlands.” Thoros pressed on. 

“Aye, I’ve been sent this way as a scout. Starks wanted to see what the Southerners were up to. I’m to go to Highgarden and over to Storm’s End to see if they're mobilising their forces.” He beamed towards his crowd. 

“Well, we’re heading up to the Northern camps, we might cross you again on the way back.” Lord Beric met her eye. “We’re escorting her back to her brother.” 

On this occasion, Ser Barristan had stayed around the fire for longer and rose quickly at this, spitting out a curse in Beric’s direction. 

“You can’t be telling people that! That information is worth a lot to the Lannisters.” 

“Calm down Selmy.” The Lightning Lord waved his hand absentmindedly. “We have nothing to fear from this lad. By the time he could reach the  Lannisters , we’ll have her in her brother’s hands once again. And then? Who cares if they know?” 

Ser Barristan grumbled but dropped but down into his seat. The squire meanwhile had been staring towards her, mouth slightly agape. 

“You’re Sansa Stark?” He managed after others noticed his trance. 

With a moment of hesitation, she nodded and swallowed so loudly she was sure the entire camp could hear. 

At once, the young man dropped down to the ground and lowered his head. 

“Forgive me, princess; I did not know.”

“Princess?” She scoffed.  _ How could he mistake me for a princess? The only one know is Myrcella, and I do not possess her golden hair or small stature.  _

Now he looked around, finding everyone sharing in her confusion. He sat back on his knees. “What have you heard from the Stark camps?”

“Not much.” Lord Beric spoke up. “We know about the Whispering Wood, about Jaime Lannister.  But that was the last we heard.” 

“Gods.” The squire muttered under his breath. “Robb Stark has been named  _ King in the North _ . I heard all his bannermen chanting it. They bow to him and call him your Grace. The last I saw of him, he had a crown too, only a simple one but no mistaking it.” 

Sansa had been sipping at a watered-down red and choked loudly on it. She searched the faces of the men surrounding her. Not one smirked or winked.  _ This is no jest.  _

“They named Robb king?” She helped the squire back to his seat and addressed him only. The boy, flushed from the drink and his embarrassment, nodded. “Gods-” 

“Well-” Lord Beric cleared his throat and broke the heavy silence. He stood and raised his arm. “Long live King Robb.” 

There were a few laughs, but some hands shot up and joined the toast. Even if the men had each made pledges to act for justice, not for allegiance to a house, enough of the men were sourced from Ned Stark’s guard that the thought of the Lannisters embittered the whole group . Sansa joined their toast with a mutter and, although it was not yet completely dark, she gave her excuses and left for her tent, feeling the sudden need to be alone. 

“Your highness!” The solitude was not to be.  Instead, she whirled around to find the Lightning Lord jogging towards her, his face not so jovial as it had been around the fire. 

“Please, don’t call me that.” She stopped where she was and brought her arms tight around herself. A chill had begun to set in. 

“I’m sorry. Will you walk with me?” She looked briefly towards the tents nearby and thought of the warmth beneath the furs, even if her bed was lumpy and smelt of a pigsty. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Red Priest, Thoros, walking Ser Barristan to his tent. 

She nodded her head and followed on as he led her away from the general camp, to the edge of the forest, where the chatter and laughter died away to a distant mumble. It was a clear night, and she found herself lost in the expanse of stars above them. She had been taught the names of a few of them, but they were lost to her now. She did not care for their names, only their twinkling beauty in the stillness.  _ When I get home, I small embroider a winter cloak with shining stars like this.  _ She’d almost forgotten the Lord beside her, but he breathed heavily, and she was brought back to earth. 

“What is it you wanted, my Lord?” 

He glanced towards her, then into the forests before them, trees vanishing into the darkness within. She could imagine a thousand wild beasts dwelling inside, waiting for a lost  wanderer to stray into their open jaws. 

“These wars are ravaging the lands. It won’t be long before there’s fighting here, even.” There was genuine disheartenment in his voice. She felt it too. Nothing was comforting about the thought of the violence that would tear the land apart.  _ Men would strip the sky of its stars if they could. “ _ Wherever your brother is will be the very centre.” 

She looked him up and down. “Are you telling me I shouldn’t go to him, to my own brother?” 

“I’m saying this news doesn’t bode well, for anyone. It’s not just revenge for your father now, that’s forgivable. Now it’s treason; it’s rebellion.” He sighed deeply. “And you’re walking straight into it.” 

_ How dare he? “ _ That’s my choice to make. You wanted to take me before, and nothing’s really changed. The  Lannisters were already fighting him. King is only a title. He’s still Robb, still my brother.” 

“It’s true, but now you’re a Princess. Your brother isn’t just fighting for honour or your family; it’s for the crown of the North. Whilst he remains unmarried and without an heir of his own, you and your brothers must be protected.” 

“I’m third in line after Bran and Rickon, and I would wager Robb would put Jon on the throne in place of me, bastard or not.” She took a step forward, turned and took a step back. “I’m not worth it – no one’s sent a rescue party to King’s Landing for me yet, have they?” 

“Your brothers will be targets for your enemies, which makes you one too. The North is where they’ll expect you are, which means it is the most dangerous place for you  to  be. Do you understand me?” 

_ No, not at all. The world is destined against me returning to my family, for what? I may be in danger, but I have been since father was taken prisoner. Robb can keep me safe, and mother would never put me in harm’s way.  _

_ “ _ If Bran and Rickon are safe in Winterfell, why won’t I be?” 

_ “ _ It won’t be safe for you to all be in the same place, no matter where that is. If Robb sent you back to Winterfell with your brothers and the keep were to be attacked, Gods forbid?” He placed a hand on her shoulder and leant toward her. “If you are somewhere else, where no one can find you, you’ll be doing something for your family- by keeping away, you’ll be protecting the Stark name. Isn’t that what you want?” 

_ I don’t know anymore. Surely Robb wouldn’t make such a mistake and send me home if it wasn’t safe- yet- _

_ “ _ You truly think the East will be safest? Ser Barristan hasn’t just told you to say it?” 

“I don’t think it’ll be safest, but I do think you’ll be doing the best thing over there. He’s not called Barristan the Bold for no reason. It’s a risk, but it’ll be worth it.” 

Sansa looked down at her feet.  _ The feet of a princess. The feet of someone with a role to play. What am I supposed to say to him – that he’s wrong? What do I know? I shouldn’t have questioned Barristan in the first place. I’m foolish, a foolish, foolish child with no idea what she’s doing, only able to think of herself. I’m selfish. Selfish, selfish - _

_ “ _ Sansa?” 

“Hmm?” She looked up and found the Lightning Lord’s eyes searching her. She exhaled slowly. “I shall go with him to the East, if it’s what’s best.” 

He squeezed her shoulder. “I think it is. You’re making the right decision, you’ll see.” 

_ Gods, I hope he’s right.  _

No one came to fetch her the next morning. She awoke naturally with the light and dressed slowly, taking care to pack everything she had neatly away. Her possessions were embarrassingly few; a dagger she only touched when she needed to, small parcels of food, a skin of fresh, clean water and a handful of gold jewellery she’d been wearing the day she was taken from the Red Keep. She had only two outfits to her name. The fine gown, now dyed a deep grey, from her wardrobe, and the simple brown and green working gown Myra had gifted her. She wore that the most, only switching to the fine gown when the other was drying from a wash in the river. 

With her satchel filled, she stepped out into a near-empty field where only two other tents spoiled the otherwise immaculate scenery. One of which, she knew to be Ser Barristan’s and was already most of the way dismantled, and the other was a deep grey tent currently being vacated by the young squire from the day before. He caught sight of her, cocked his head, and ambled over. 

“Don’t tell me they’ve left you here!” His eyes searched her face, then swept across the field. 

She chuckled lightly and began on her own tent. “Ser Barristan and I have parted from them to head to Maidenpool.” 

“I thought you were going to your brother’s camp – I can take you there if you wish. I’m sure the King would much prefer me to bring you back than any information I can get on the Southern houses.” He smirked a little, but his expression was genuine. For a moment, she considered it, but the grave voice of Lord Beric repeated in her ear, and she shook her head gratefully. 

“I wish I could, but we must head East. Thank you, though.” 

He dropped his head for a moment but looked up again and grasped her free hand. “I wish you luck then in your journey.” 

“And you in yours.” The material and wooden poles collapsed together. The squire turned and was heading back again, but she lunged forward and found herself in his path. “When you see my brother and mother again, tell them you’ve seen me. Tell them I’m alive and hidden away. The  Lannisters will likely spread lies about Arya and me but tell them I am not in Westeros and that they don’t have my sister either.” 

He bowed his head. “As you say, Princess. I hope you can return to the North again soon.” 

She smiled faintly. “As do I.” 

Less than an hour later, the squire was on his horse and riding hard Southward while Sansa and Ser Barristan Selmy set off South-east in the direction of the port town of  Maidenpool . They said little as they rode and on this stunt of the journey, they barely stopped as before. Sansa had grown used to riding for longer periods of time and no longer felt the need to stop every couple of hours for a rest. As they rode, she thought fondly of the squire and hoped her message travelled through him to her brother. She said a silent prayer for his safe journey but realised part-way through that she’d never known his name. She asked her companion, but he hadn’t paid enough attention to the lad to find out. He was Ser  Archen’s squire, and his mother had served in Riverrun- that was all she could recall, and that led her no closer to his identity. That night as they made camp with the borrowed tents, she wondered if she’d ever meet the boy again. Something within her told her she would not. Something told her he might never get back to the  Riverlands in time to deliver her word. That was the way of war- young boys without titles, or esteemed houses are fodder, placed in the van and sacrificed for the good of the army. She thought of Robb and whether he was capable of sending boys to their deaths before she realised it had already been done. Robb split his forces to intentionally lose one battle to gain the much more valued prize. He knew he was sending men to their tombs but made the decision none the less.  _ Is that the brother I grew up with?  _ She shivered beneath her furs because, for the life of her, she didn’t know the answer. 

The journey to  Maidenpool was short and untroubled, the pair arriving in the harbour with their hoods raised and Ser Barristan taking them directly to the ships to enquire about their destinations. 

“Where is it you mean to go?” She’d asked him on the outskirts of the town. “The East is many cities, is it not?” 

“Any one of the cities, for a start. We can stay there for a while, and I’ll plan our next moves. Don’t worry about such things.” 

Far from satisfied with his answer –  he seemed to have an idea about their destination but refused to let on  _ –  _ she mumbled her assent and their rode on towards the edge of the realm. 

The knight returned to her swiftly, a smile just visible underneath his hood. He led her along to a hulking merchant ship where barrels and casks were lifted by pulleys and dropped heavily on the deck. The captain, overlooking the loading, nodded as they passed and had his men help her dismount and board. “The horses are payment for the cabin.” Ser Barristan spoke in her ear, following closely behind. 

“My daughter, Elize.” He introduced her to the captain, who extended a hand for her to shake. He grasped her with such tightness, she was sure she would lose it, but a moment later, she was released as the captain, who named himself Hansel, laughed at the look on her face. She dropped her head, rubbing the sore hand and disguising the red bloom across her cheeks. She had only ever been mocked in such a way by Arya and Jon, and she knew a word in her mother’s ear would see that right. This man was a captain, and there was no one for her to complain to, bar her knight, who fell into conversation with a member of the crew hauling a sack bursting with coin. 

_ Elize Aerin. Elize Aerin. Elize Aerin.  _ She repeated the name she had given over and over in her head. It still didn’t feel right, and though Barristan had taken to calling her that, she still would not turn her head when called or register he meant her. Elize was Arsten Whitebeard's daughter , a traveller and fighter travelling to Essos to showcase his skills and provide for his child. It was a story she liked, interesting enough to be that of a character in a story, but it was simply that – a story.  _ I am Sansa of House Stark. I have no father. I am from the North, not the Stormlands, and we are fleeing, not going to make our fortune.  _ Yet there was nothing she could do. A wrong word could give away her identity and, with that, her hiding place would no longer be hidden. She could only hope no one would try to speak to her much.  _ If I don’t have to talk, I won’t have to lie.  _ It was a quaint hope, but she doubted the crew would be so nonchalant towards their passengers.  _ It’s not a long journey,  _ she reminded herself, yet, in the dock with the expanse of sea ahead of them, that offered her no comfort. 

When the rest of their cargo secured onboard, a deckhand presented himself and led them through the creaking passageways deep in the ship to a small door at the end of a corridor. The room inside was just large enough for the two of them, with two hammocks secured from one wall to another, and a small trunk each. Being at the end of the ship, light streamed in through a solitary window between them, just the right height for Sansa to peer through. Outside, everything was blue. The sky was cloudless and the sea still and mild. It was more an unframed painting than a window- a canvas painted in just one colour. While Ser Barristan unstrapped his plate and unpacked his belongings, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the blueness. The longer she stared, the brighter it became. It was vibrant and endless before her. She had never seen anything like it. 

The ship’s sails were raised with a jolt, and they pulled away from the harbour with a rocking just noticeable beneath their feet. It wasn’t completely unpleasant. Ser Barristan excused himself to speak again with the captain, and she waved him away without a word. They were moving now, and while the view from her window was still a blur of blue, before too long, land would be spreading across the horizon- Essos. She had never felt any particular force drawing her towards the strange lands to the East, yet now, with them waiting ahead of her, her stomach twisted in anticipation. 

_ What would father think of me now?  _

The tears hit before she could finish her thought. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell hard onto her knees, but the pain was nothing. She doubled over, clutching her stomach as each sob wracked over her. Alone in the swaying room heading towards a foreign land with a man who was a stranger weeks ago, the day of her father’s execution played through her head again and again. She winced every time the sword came down and felt the hands seize her and pull her away. More than anything she heard the numbing silence that the frenzied crowds had fallen into. 

Birds cried overhead. She didn’t know if she’d imagined them.  _ Are they real? Am I even here?  _ The thought of her, sitting on that ship, would’ve made no sliver of sense weeks ago yet she felt the wooden panels beneath her and sucked musty air into her lungs. The pain had struck her all at once, and she took every blow, every ounce of bitterness and hatred and let it out on that floor. It was not ladylike to weep and cry as she did, but she hoped even her Septa could forgive her for this moment of weakness.  _ Oh Gods, Septa  _ _ Mordane _ _ \-  _

Ser Barristan found her on the floor, curled up with her knees against her cheek, staring straight ahead with bloodshot, puffy eyes. For a brief second, she was so still he feared her dead, but her body, suddenly so small, shook in short, shallow breaths and, eventually, she blinked. 

He said nothing, but dropped into his hammock, thanking the Gods that he didn’t immediately swing back out of it, and rested his hand softly on her head. He’d known this moment was coming. No one could keep going so long. He was only surprised she’d made it this far. He hummed an old tune his mother had once sung for him when he’d fallen ill, sick with the same flu that had later taken her life, and let the swaying of the ship ease her breathing back into its normal rhythm. 

“Your father would be proud of you.” He whispered as the darkness seeped into the cabin and stole away the light. She said nothing in return, and, finding her asleep, he carefully stepped down, lifted her and dropped her into her hammock. A small pile of furs had been left across the room and, with no fire to warm them, he knew it would soon reach bitterly cold temperatures as they moved into open waters. Gently, he laid one across her and took another for himself, staring up at the ceiling until the lullaby of  _ The Lark –  _ the never-ending creaking and moans- took him back to a better time without war or hatred. It was a time when no man had to flee, when both his parents were alive, and he thought only of his sword-training and the fair-headed daughter of the keep’s steward. That was before the Targaryen rule had crumbled around them, and he took arms for his King. It was the first step he’d taken that had led, day by day, to that moment, swaying gently on a ship heading far away. 

He turned his head and watched the Stark girl, a Princess now, breathing slowly and twitching in his sleep. So much had changed since he’d raised his sword for Aerys Targaryen, yet his task was still the same. Everything he did now was for his charge, for Sansa. He could only pray that he was good enough. 


	3. Chapter 3

As with the majority of merchant ships travelling the stretch between Westeros and the Free Cities,  _ The Lark _ docked in the port of Pentos, one of the many thousand galleys unloading and loading their goods in the rapturous harbour. Hansel emerged from his cabin on the final day of sailing, boasting proudly of yet another eventless journey, pointing towards the first glimpses of the city and telling his guests of his favourite alehouses, of his many adventures with the Prince of the city and almost of his favourite whore, until the golden knight jumped forward and ushered his daughter away. 

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time the ship had found its place and lowered its plank. The deck swarmed to life as men began to heave and shuttle the cargo, and two figures gave their thanks and slipped away, holding tightly to their small bags and warm cloaks no longer suited to the climate. 

Sansa could not help stare as they swept quickly through the overflowing harbour and further inward into the depths of the city. The young princess of the North had seen men and women from the East only briefly in her time in King’s Landing yet now she was completely surrounded and found herself at a complete loss as to how to describe what she was seeing. No single person was the same as another. Whilst everyone, especially in the North, bore the same dark hair to their shoulders and grizzled expressions, every person she passed appeared to have stepped out from a different world. Hair was coloured every colour imaginable, beards too and some styled in forks or twirls. The clothes were nothing like she’d seen before – bright and light, with warm-toned skin exposed to the beaming sunlight overhead as if they’d never known the cold before. Voices cut across them from all direction in all dialects – some light and airy, others deep and guttural and some speaking in the familiar yet still out of place common speech. She clung close to her companion’s side. She couldn’t imagine how she would fare in such a place alone –  _ and we’ve only just left the ship.  _

Ser Barristan, having studied maps carefully that morning, walked swiftly away from the main crowds, cementing them deep within the high walls that surrounded the entire city. They passed a number of manses and palaces he explained were the homes of the wealthiest merchants and estate owners. There was one he was especially drawn to, and they paused a moment in front of its gates like peasants begging alms. 

“This one belongs to Khal Drogo, the  Horselord .” He smiled, waiting for her reaction. Sansa knew a little about the Dothraki, and she’d heard the name Drogo before but that was as far as her knowledge went. She wondered why a  Westerosi Knight cared so much for a Horse lord's currently empty estate. It was no different to the rest of the street bar the design of a rearing stallion she could see laid out in tiny coloured stones in front of the steps leading to the palace. She said nothing but nodded her head in appreciation, and he continued onwards, promising they were almost at their destination. 

It was a simple inn set between a cloth-merchants and a row of the white-stone houses. It was unassuming in every way; the eye passed over its worn sign, and the sound of voices inside was drowned out by the usual sounds of life sprouting all around them. He led her inside, and she waited at a corner table while he approached the  innkeeper to arrange rooms for them. 

Being mid-afternoon, a few  Pentoshi were bent double over their cups. Still, otherwise, it was quiet, and the simplicity of the few chairs and tables gave it a generally calming atmosphere. A deathly pale man was behind the bar, speaking with her knight, whilst a young woman with richly dark skin stopped at each of the occupied tables and spread her smiles. In her salmon-pink but lightly soiled gown, she stopped before Sansa and arched a brow. 

“ Westerosi ?” She spoke, her accent thick. Sansa could not tell which tongue she would usually speak in. She’d heard so little of anything bar her own language yet had found herself in the writhing midst of seemingly every dialect that existed. 

“Yes.” She nodded, keeping her voice as clear as possible. The woman nodded quickly and flashed perfect white teeth –  _ how does someone get their teeth that white?  _

_ “ _ Drink?” 

At that moment, Ser Barristan had returned and took the seat beside her, he looked to the woman and laid a hand on the table. 

“ Iā ale  syt nyke se  dōna averilla syt ñuha tala.” 

The woman’s eyes opened wide, and she bowed her head. 

“ Aōha Valyrīha iksis sȳz ,  ñuha āeksio .” She scratched a few symbols onto a pad with a piece of charcoal secured behind her ear and made her way to the bar  where she fell into conversation with the  innkeep . 

"I didn’t know you could speak -”

“Valyrian?” He sat back in his chair. “Not much, learnt it when I was a boy, Gods know why. I remember bits.” He looked over to her, sitting forward and hands wringing together in her lap. “Relax, you’ll get used to it. Besides, we’ve no reason to fear here. We’re safe, for the moment.” 

She released her shoulders but couldn’t sit as casually as he was. “Are you certain? If any of them spoke with their Prince-” 

“That’s why we’re here. No  Westerosi comes this far into the city, and those that stay here, well-” he cast his eyes across the room, “- they don’t know to look for us, and frankly, they couldn’t care less.” 

The barmaid dropped by again and set down a tankard of dark liquid and a goblet of pinkish wine. She took a sip and allowed the warmth to spread through. It was stronger than anything she’d had before, but she wasn’t averse to the feeling. Ser Barristan took a large gulp from his cup and set it down. She could tell by his satisfied grin that such a drink was in tall order. 

“What now?” She started after the second mouthful of her drink. It was even better than the first. “How long can we stay here?” 

“I’ll be going out tomorrow, see what information I can find, and we’ll go from there.” He laid a hand gently on her shoulder. “The last I heard of the  Khalasar , they were in Vaes Dothrak, far in the East, but if she wishes to return to Westeros, she’ll be heading this way soon.”

Sansa hadn’t got much out of the knight on their trip across the Narrow Sea. He spent most of his time with the captain and offering his hand for tasks around the deck. She spent her time in their cabin, or the fresh air, trying to clear away the nausea of the constant, inescapable rocking beneath her. Now he’d mentioned a ‘she’, and Sansa was not prepared to let this moment of clarity pass. She had faith in Ser Barristan, she had to, but she still couldn’t help wonder what exactly he planned to do with her while war ravaged their lands. 

“She?” Sansa tilted her head. Ser Barristan’s eyes widened at the realisation of what he’d said, and he cleared his throat in discomfort. 

“Not here.” He murmured lowly. “Finish your drink, and I’ll tell you upstairs.” 

Sansa did as she was bid and finished the rest of the wine in a few great gulps without a word. She knew it was reckless and such things put men in their cups – dizzy and raving- but she felt a sudden urge to know it all. Barristan drank half of his and rose with a groan. 

The  innkeeper , spotting them heading towards a battered door to the stairs, stepped before them and offered to lead them there himself. Ser Barristan tried to convince him he could find the way himself, but the  Pentoshi insisted and deposited them neatly in the double room, speaking incessantly about extra firewood and when to break their fast the next morning. He dismissed himself with a  grandiose bow and could be heard scuttling back downstairs. Ser Barristan closed the door behind him and made a point of turning the key sharply in the lock. 

“What do you know about Daenerys Targaryen?” 

_ Daenerys Targaryen? What do I know?  _ Sansa wracked her mind.

_ “ _ I heard her name a few times in the keep, but I thought it was just a myth. There was something about Dothraki and her brother,  Viserys . I thought they’d been missing since they left Dragonstone?” 

Sansa knew her history. She hadn’t enjoyed many of the draining lessons which pulled each house’s lineage into one, impossible to navigate, family tree, traceable back to the first men in the North and the Targaryens in the South. Yet, the recent tales of Robert’s Rebellion had held her attention. The Targaryen King Aerys had gone insane and killed her uncle and grandfather, two men she had never met. If Brandon Stark had lived, he would’ve married her mother, and she may well be his daughter, instead of Eddard’s.  _ Would Brandon Stark fall to the  _ _ Lannisters _ _ as his brother did? _

_ “ _ It’s no myth. Though I’m sure all sorts of rumours have been spread, what you’ve said is true. Daenerys Targaryen lives and married Khal Drogo – we saw his manse today if you recall.” 

Now she understood why he’d looked at that palace with such intrigue. She nodded. 

“She and her brother  Viserys travelled with the Dothraki who’ve promised to reclaim his crown for him and return the  Targaryens to power. First, they travelled to their sacred lands, Vaes Dothrak, to celebrate the Khal’s coming son.” He sighed and shook his head, unstrapping his sword-belt which was left hanging on the door, and removing his plate. “They reached the city, but  Viserys angered the horse lords, and they killed him for the dishonour. Daenerys is still held in high regard as their Queen – Khalessi in their tongue – but this is the last I heard. I can only presume they’ve left that place and are moving Westwards. The  khalasar will be large; they do not need to linger and gather more men.” 

“You wish to go to her? Why?” Sansa had seated herself on the end on one of the beds. It was not stuffed with feathers, but with straw, yet she found it leagues better than the swaying hammocks that tended to throw her out and onto the gnarled floorboards. 

He took a glance out of the window, towards the dying city. “I served the  Targaryens once, they made me Kingsguard, gave me all I wanted. But when it came to protecting them? I was too wounded. I was supposed to be with Princess Elia and her children, but I was stuck, half-dead. I don’t think I would’ve stopped them from their fate, but maybe I could’ve saved one, or gone with the Queen to Dragonstone instead. I know I have to be with Daenerys now, provide the protection I promised to her father.” He turned back to her. “I’m a foolish old man, Sansa. I know I can’t fight forever, but while I can, I believe I should put it to good use.” 

She shuffled in her place. “And you don’t think you could do that for Joffrey?” 

He guffawed and shook his head. “No, I do not. I would pity the men who have to serve him if I knew they weren’t all just as bad. You and I have had a lucky escape from that family. I knew Tywin’s daughter wasn’t right for Robert as soon as she was brought forward, but who would care for my opinion?” 

Sansa thought of all the  Kingsgaurds she’d seen in her time at the Red Keep. She could not name all of them and had spoken to even less. Ser Barristan the Bold was a legend, a great veteran with an impressive history – how could the others compare?

“I think they’d listen to you more than any others. You’ve served Kings longer than most of them, you’ve seen a lot.” She smiled faintly. 

“Served many dead kings, yes. Robert only listened to anyone if they agreed with him. Even his council struggled to get a word in.” He dropped down on to his bed and kicked off his boots. “Best get an early night, I’ll be up early at the harbour, and you – you'll have to entertain yourself. Do you mind?” 

_ I’ve had to entertain myself half my life. Arya and my brothers never much enjoyed my company, so I spent almost all my time with my Septa or Jeyne. They both expected me to be a Lady of the keep – to have plans and lead them in our downtime.  _

_ “ _ I’ll be fine.” She lied. She could imagine little worse than being left in a foreign city on her own, unable to speak the language or find her way around. She supposed their lodgings were not too bad. The room was simple but furnished comfortably with heavily cushioned seats, finely sewn netting across the window and a woven rug beneath their feet. 

She turned her back for him to strip to his underclothes and he offered her the same courtesy, before she crawled beneath the thin covers and wrapped her arms around herself. It was not cold by any definition, yet she felt the lack of thick wolf furs like a sheet of ice. She brought her knees up to her chest and remained there, dipping in and out of sleep, until the morning sun cast its rays across the  dark-wood floors. 

Ser Barristan kept his promise and was up and out before she’d finished breaking her fast. Few were staying with them, only two others who dressed simply and ate their fill of the hot eggs, grainy bread and the fried rashers of something tasting unlike any bacon Sansa had had before. She thanked the young woman and returned upstairs, the click of the door sounding out like a bell behind her and as she found herself completely alone. 

_ I should’ve stayed in bed longer, wasted the day away; then I wouldn’t have so much time to fill.  _ She began by emptying her small pack, taking out her finer dress and hanging it, carefully setting the knife on the stand next to her bed, and putting the food parcels back away. Then she took to exploring. The room was no great expanse of space, but the night before she hadn’t had the chance to look over it properly. She found the cupboards and drawers empty except that which she had just put away, otherwise worn by years of use. Across the room, beside the two soft chairs, was a shelf with several books laid awkwardly against each other. She picked one at random. She couldn’t read the title but beneath it was a picture of a ship, the typical depiction of a boat that somehow looked nothing like any she had ever seen herself. 

_ Se  _ _ Lōgor _ _ Morgho _

She flicked through the pages, each filled with the unfamiliar script that blurred before her eyes until she convinced herself they weren’t words at all. Still, illustrations etched in silver were dotted throughout, and she focused on them. One was of a trading port landscape- people in peasant clothing spread amongst merchants and their stands. Then there was the ship, more detailed than on the front cover. Its sails and flags were tattered, and the tiny figures abroad were no more than skeletons with curved blades. After that were islands, more open lands and cities, then at the very end, the sails ripped from their masts and torn up by the unrelenting waves.  _ It must have sunk.  _

She put the book down and turned to the rest. All were in Valyrian, and none of the others had pictures either. She slumped into the chair and laid back her head.  _ Perhaps I can catch up with those lost hours of sleep.  _

The sun was beginning its descent across the orange sky when a knock at the door roused her and forced her to her feet. 

“Elize?” A voice on the  other side called out. Her shoulders relaxed, and she took the iron key from her pocket to let him in. Ser Barristan grinned to see her and stepped quickly inside, pulling off his sword belt and shrugging off the cloak that covered his linens. He seemed a different man without his plate and mail, currently piled neatly in the corner of the room. “Are you well?”

She nodded. “I’ve been reading.” 

“Reading?” He arched a brow. “How did you manage that?” 

“Well, I had to imagine that bit, but I looked at the pictures.” She returned to the seat and waited expectantly. The knight said nothing but took two cups from the metal tray, filling them from the carafe filled that morning. She took hers with her thanks and took a small sip, “Did you find anything?” 

“Very little. Most haven’t heard word since what happened in Vaes  Dothrak. If they’re in the open, it’s unlikely anyone will see them to send word back here. I can only hope they reach a city soon; I had hoped they would be moving faster than this.” He frowned and cradled his cup. 

“So, we have to stay here? For how long?” 

“Gods know. But I do know of a merchant who ventures far into the East. Word was he’d be returning soon, so I hope to speak with him when he does. I can’t promise he’ll know anything more than us, but if anyone has heard of the Targaryen, it's him.” 

She nodded slowly, considering. She had hoped to be up and moving again quickly. It wasn’t that she completed distrusted the inn, but it could never be safe when anyone could simply walk through the doors and ask the right questions. All she truly wanted was to get back home, and she had to believe along with Barristan that Daenerys Targaryen was their best bet at making a meaningful and safe return.  _ And yet? Am I pleased that we may not reach her?  _ She couldn’t be certain, but she noted the lack of any great wave of disappointment. 

“But -” he jumped up at once, a sudden sparkle in his eyes. He set down his sloshing drink and took to rifling through his bags. “I brought you something to fill your time.” 

He returned to her with a sizable package, wrapped in a simple cloth but weighty as it was dropped in her arms. With nimble fingers, excited for the first time in so long, she drew the covering aside and gazed into the contents with wide, near-unblinking eyes. 

“You need more clothes, but I would not know who to seek to have you fitted. You can sew, can you not?” 

Spread out on her lap were a series of fabrics, some thin as gauze and others thick and sturdy. In the centre of the pack was a cloth wallet, filled with all she would need to turn the squares into something wearable, something beautiful. She had revelled in embroidery and knew the best evenings were spent with a basket of scrap fabrics in her hand, embellishing them with carefully placed designs, normally in the reds and blues of the Tully’s as she found grey and black too dull. The material on her lap was a mix of creams and oranges to fit with the styles of the East, she supposed, but there was some darker thread in the kit, perhaps designated for some more striking designs. She did not know what to make of it. Her mind was spinning with ideas. She knew so little of the fashion of Pentos and had seen so little of it, yet with the materials before her, she knew it was possible for her to belong, at least in appearance, to these foreign lands. She finally glanced upwards, having forgotten completely that she wasn’t alone. 

“This is – this is amazing. I cannot thank you enough, ser.” She refolded the cover and set the pack down neatly beside her. “You are too kind.” 

“It is the least I can do. If this is what you enjoy, you must do it. I cannot have you lose yourself because we have travelled far from home, from your kin. Anyway, it looks as if we may be here longer than I anticipated so you will need to wear the right clothes so to not draw attention. I hope it is all you need?” 

“It is excellent.” She smiled. 

“I’m pleased.” He clapped his hands together. “Shall we go down to eat? Whatever stew they were cooking smelt surprisingly inviting. I would not want to miss it.” 

“Me neither.” She stood and accepted his offered arm. She became suddenly aware of the groaning of her stomach, neglected since that morning. With all that had happened in the past few weeks, somehow, the thought of a good, warm meal in their little inn with her gift waiting above them, felt almost comforting. She still could not shift the memories nor the dread that built up like bile in her throat, but the few moments of peace did their bit in her making her forget, even for just a second, that her world had come tumbling down. 

Once again, Ser Barristan left early the next morning, and Sansa was left to make her way back to her room by herself. She didn’t think much of being alone anymore. She was anxious to get started with her new dress and spread out each material and the sewing kit, trying to picture the finished dress in her mind. She thought mostly of the gown the maid wore, as she’d only got a glance when they travelled the streets a few days before. But, however much she tried to picture it, the image would not come. In Winterfell, she lived amongst gowned women and had her own wardrobe for reference- yet now she had nothing to go from bar a fleeting memory that wriggled from her grasp. 

Two hours later, she realised she had not moved had was about to completely cast the idea aside when there came a knock at the door. 

“Hello?” She raised her voice tentatively. It was only midday, not nearly late enough for Barristan to have returned unless something had gone wrong and they had been discovered. Her hand reached towards the table beside her bed and took hold of the hilt of her dagger. She held her breath.

“Elize?” The voice was that of the woman downstairs, “food?” 

Sansa tucked the knife into her belt, where it was still reachable but would not scare the woman, and unlocked the door. On the other side, the  Pentoshi was holding out a tray of bread rolls, fresh by their smell, and a bowl of red and green fruit Sansa couldn’t name. She stood aside, and the tray was set down next to the wine flagons. The serving girl nodded and turned to leave. 

“What are these for?” Sansa called out, half-knowing her words would fall on deaf ears. Yet still, she saw no harm in trying. 

“Your father said.” She spun back around, hands held together and eyes cast downwards. 

_ Now I have another thing to thank Ser Barristan for.  _

_ “ _ Thank you.” Sansa looked over the room, and her eyes fell on her discarded materials. Something struck her. 

“What is your name?” She tried, hoping her grasp of the common tongue was enough. 

She pointed to herself. “Zharra.” 

“ Zharra -” Sansa mused, it was a melodic name, far sweeter than some of the grating sounds of the North. Now she gestured over herself, across the lines of her dress. “I am making a dress, do you have any I could look at?” 

Zharra looked towards her, but her expression was vacant. Sansa repeated herself, but the meaning was still lost.  _ Gods, I wish I had thought to learn Valyrian.  _

At that moment, a man’s cry came from downstairs, that of the owner, and the serving girl excused herself and half-ran from the room. Sansa stood before the open door, and another idea struck her. She pocketed the key, drew her fabrics back into the bag and brought it all downstairs with her where she found the innkeeper writing something in a ledger while  Zharra filled a stranger’s cup. She ignored them and went to the bar. For several seconds, the  innkeeper did not look up, focusing on his notes, but eventually, he raised his head, closed the ledger, and looked her over. 

“Everything alright?” He uttered in a strong, if heavily accented, version of the common tongue. Inwardly, she celebrated the success of her feeling that he must speak more of the language, in his position and witnessing a slow but steady influx of both travellers and locals. “Was the food not right?” He looked ready to defend himself, his face twisted in bitterness, so she quickly raised the pack in her arms. 

“I’m making a dress,” she explained, “but I have not been in the city long enough to know the style. Does  Zharra have anything I can borrow, or your wife’s, to help me? I would be most careful and very grateful.” 

He looked her over again with dark, careful eyes that reminded Sansa of her sister’s. Eventually, thankfully, he relented and nodded his head, beckoning her around the bar and through into the back rooms that made up his living quarters. 

“Use what you need.” He had taken her to a bedroom, musty and so cold she knew no fire had been lit there for many months, perhaps years. The wardrobe before her was laden with dresses and he opened another set of drawers filled with underclothes. 

“She was smaller than you, younger. But they should be enough for studying.” His eyes swept across the  room, mouth drawn into a tight line. “You cannot stay in here though; it is no place for you. Choose what you like, then come through into the furthest back room, it has the  most light , more than upstairs, at least.” 

Struck silent by the kindness and deep sorrow in his voice, Sansa did as she was bid, selecting two dresses from the wardrobe and an under-gown, hoping she might have enough spare fabric to make herself one. She then followed the  innkeeper through into the promised backroom which, awash with light from the wide windows which spread from wall to wall and gave her a glimpse of the city beyond. It was their own kitchen, separate from the inn, and filled mostly with cupboards and sacks piled up in every corner. A great dark wood table sat in the centre, and she set her things down upon it and took a seat facing the windows, letting the midday sun dance upon her. 

“I cannot thank you enough.” She declared before he could slip away and leave her to her business, which he appeared eager to do. “But why?” 

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “We get mostly men in here, a few women, but never any children except babes. I do not know why your father has brought you here all the way from Westeros, but we have not had a child under our roof since  Lerala . It is just Zharra and me now, but it is nice to see you happy.” 

“You are too good.” 

“No, I am not. I just see my girl in your eyes. Please,” he cleared his throat, “stay as long as you need. I will tell your father where you are.” 

“Thank you,” she repeated and, with a nod of the head, he turned and returned to the front, leaving her to make a start to the dress. 

“That’s coming along well.” 

Sansa nearly jumped from her seat at the voice behind her. In her concentration, she’d slipped in a haze, not truly thinking of anything but the careful placement of her needle and the patterns she was lifting from the young girl’s dress. Her start drew a deep chuckle from behind her and Ser Barristan stepped forward, blocking her light. 

“I’m- they said I could-”

He held out his hands. “No need to explain. It’s good, actually, to see you in company. Did you enjoy the food I had sent up for you?” 

_ The food! I left it up there and never thought to get it back down again.  _

_ “ _ I got distracted.” She lifted the material in explanation, half expecting the knight to frown and curse her for her lack of gratitude. She was ready to launch into a tirade of apologies and remind him that she had always been taught to be respectful of such gifts and –  _ he isn’t angry.  _ In fact, Ser Barristan the Bold appeared completely unbothered by her omission. He wiped an  ungloved hand across his brow thick with sweat and gulped from his flask. 

“Well, they said the food would be ready soon. Something light, for the heat.” He looked over her. “Would you like a walk? I don’t want you stuck up indoors all day, and we’ve got a little time left.” 

Sansa nodded, quicker than she’d meant to, and got to work packing away her small pile of materials and the child’s garments. She set them neatly in a pale and left it on a used stool. He held out his arm to her, and she took it, genuinely excited just to breath fresh air and feel the sun directly on her cheeks. 

She’d missed the strongest heat of the day, and by the time they slowly trotted through the streets, a gentle and most welcome breeze came to meet them. The sun was still bright, though, and she basked in its unfading warmth.  _ It is a different sun than the one in the North; it must be. _

_ “ _ Did the merchant arrive, with news from the Dothraki?” 

Ser Barristan shook his head gruffly. “Not today. Half a dozen traders were so sure it would be this morning, then it was this afternoon, then this evening. In the end, I had to force myself to go. If he arrives before tomorrow morning, I will see him then; chances are he wouldn’t want to see me in the dead of night anyway.” 

“ So, you think tomorrow?” 

He shrugged. “Perhaps, or maybe the day after, or the one after that. If I don’t see him soon, I’ll have to search further afield. Someone in this city must know something beyond its walls.” 

“And if they don’t?” 

“Then we’ll go on to Bravos or Voltantis. We’ll find a way.” 

They were passing into a busier set of streets; she dropped her voice. “You are sure to go with the Targaryen is the best way to go. They are known to be mad. If she had her own brother killed-” 

She heard him swallow. “Do not think it hasn’t crossed my mind. There is a chance, as there always is, that’ll she’ll be her father’s daughter. But then again, she could be like Rhaegar. I knew him well and never had reason to doubt that he was a good man and would grow to be a good king. It is only a shame what became of him.” 

There was a wistfulness to his voice, but she didn’t care much for it. “Rhaegar kidnapped and raped my aunt. So many died because of him. I do not think that a ‘good’ man could ever be responsible for such suffering and hatred.” 

Ser Barristan only hummed in reply which told her he’d said his part enough and was in no mood to debate the moral character of Rhaegar Targaryen. 

They returned to the inn in a strange silence, her fears still bubbling within and his frustrations with his progress still written across his forehead. They dined on the light spread of fruits and vegetables with fresh loaves and gallons of sweet wine, then made their way back upstairs and once again crawled into bed while the sun still peeked from the horizon. 

When Sansa woke the next morning, she found herself alone. The bed across from her own was empty, carefully tidied and a folded piece of parchment left on the pillow. 

_ Elize,  _

_ I have had word that the merchant’s ship made port late last night. I have gone to beg an audience and learn what he knows. I hope to be back early, but I cannot say. Enjoy your day,  _

_ Your father. _

Her stomach twisted in unease. The knowledge that they may be on the move again soon thrilled her yet she found some small comfort in the confines of the inn. The people here, barring the silent drunks, were kind and did not pry but had opened their home to her. She would’ve liked more time to finish her dress, but if they were to leave the following today, it would come with them half-done. 

_ Perhaps I can finish it today - if I start early.  _

She could still hear the vague noises of life downstairs and dressed quickly to hurry down and break her fast. With a smile and short word to the  innkeep and  Zharra , she found herself seated in the backroom, hunched over her sewing and picking up where she left off. 

She had been sat for several hours, engrossed in her work as she tried against all odds to finish it by the end of the day, when a rap at the door alerted her to  Zharra standing behind her, once again laden with a tray of food and a flagon of drink. It was another warm day, and she thanked her repeatedly, realising just how thirsty she had grown.  Zharra hesitated , dark eyes scanning across the material which was slowly taking shape. 

“Very fine.” She smiled sweetly, reaching forward and running slender fingers along a gauze sash. Bending down, a strand of hair had slipped from its bonnet and she smartly tucked it away. 

“Would you like some?” She reached towards the flagon and looked up and down. The serving girl tried to refuse her, but Sansa persisted and eventually, she nodded, and fetched a second cup from a cupboard. Sansa  poured the amber liquid for them both and, in the quaint stillness, they drank, relishing in the sweet and tart nectar. 

“Th-”  Zharra began, cut off by a growling shout coming from the bar. Her smile dropped from her face and a darkness swept over her. 

“What is it?” Sansa rose slowly from her seat to peer through the door. There was nothing to see except the back of the  innkeeper stood at the bar. 

“ Skoriot's se  byka run??” A gravelly voice rang out, far too loud for indoors.  _ Drunk,  _ she decided,  _ and  _ _ it’s _ _ only just midday.  _

“Who’s that?” She whispered. Both were leaning forward to hear the rest of the conversation. 

“Horrid,”  Zharra murmured, her gaze fixed ahead and one hand balled in the  fabric of her apron. 

“ Skorkydoso glaesā ?” A cheery voice replied, cool and even by laced with caution. A few words were exchanged, but they were garbled and sounded more like the grumbles of a sleeping beast than the words of a man. “ Daor konīr's daor jorrāelagon ,  kostilus ,  lēkia ao -”

His voice was cut off as Sansa had to jump back to avoid the sweeping arm of a sizable man who had stormed in with the sufficiently smaller  innkeep following closely behind. He was as tall as the door, and his arms stretched out before her, covering the expanse of the room. His head was bald, but he had grown a twisted beard and moustache, dyed a faded green and kept in place by small metal rings. He was great, but not handsome, and she could smell the ale clinging to him from several steps away. 

“ Konīr iksā , se  iā raqiros tolī ?” He leant forwards, allowing his brother to slip around him and plant himself in front of them. “ Iksan sepār jurnegēre .” He spat out.

“What’s he saying?” She mumbled to  Zharra who seemed completely frozen in place. 

“ Westerosi ? Are you?” The towering man centred on her, lips curling upwards. “What are you doing here?” 

“She’s staying here, with her father.” The owner stepped to the side again to draw the intruder’s attention. “Now, you must leave.” 

“ Daor sesīr iā mōzugon?” He snarled. 

“ Daor bisa jēda ,  dombo .” Sansa did not know what the  innkeeper had said, but there was a resolution in his tone, and whatever it was, it caused a fierce rumble of insults to spout from the other man’s mouth. Eventually, however, he spat a final curse, cast his eye over them, and stormed back out again and, by the sound of it, out of the inn completely. As the main door fell shut heavily, three breaths were released. 

The  innkeep was the first to speak. “I’m sorry you had to see this.” 

Sansa had taken hold of  Zharra’s shaking hand and squeezed it. “Who was he?” 

“My brother.” He uttered, seething. “A drunk, thief and Gods know what else.”

“He hates you?”

“It’s mutual. He joined some  mercenaries years back, and I took the inn. When they expelled him, he came back here, trying to make his claim. Our parents left it to me, and he squandered his money away. I would not let him have this, and I will not have him come in and disrupt us either.” He shook his head heavily but stopped as his eyes caught on the material spread across the table. “You  _ are  _ very skilled, and brave too. You did not let him see your fear.” 

_ But it was there, I promise you.  _

_ “ _ I do not know what I’d do if my brother treated me like that.” She confessed. 

“You have a brother?” 

_ Damn it.  _

_ “ _ Just one,” she lied, “Arvan - he left to travel many years ago.” 

“Ah.” He nodded, finding nothing to say.  Instead, he turned to  Zharra, who was yet to move. “ Māzigon ,  ñuha jorrāelagon .  Ziry iksos qopsa ,  yn jī va. Ivestragī īlva emagon mirri bāne averilla se  daor pendagon hen  ziry .”

With a faint smile and a small word of thanks, the serving girl removed her hand from Sansa’s grip and shuffled behind the  innkeeper back towards the bar, keeping her head down and her hands balled into fists at her sides. 

Sansa looked after them when they were gone, wondering what terrible things had befallen these people so that one man could instil such horror in their very being. She could half imagine what  Zharra feared, but she didn’t wish to think about it and returned to her seat instead. She tried to start again, but her mind was buzzing, and her body felt uncomfortable, like it needed to be stretched out. She managed to do complete a few lines of stitches, but her hands longed to relax, and her eyes were beginning to ache from staring down for so long. She took a turn around the room, standing a while in front of the windows to feel the sun once more, then took a trip around the front of the inn and back again. It did not quell the feeling. It was as if her very bones were nervous. They vibrated and hummed with energy. She ate some of the food, poured herself more sweet wine, and instead planned out the rest of her dress in her head. 

In her strange stupor, darkness had come. It was only in the very moment she felt calm enough to begin her sewing again that she looked across and realised she could hardly see her needle and thread. The sun had nearly completely dipped below the skyline, and the small room was descending into greater darkness by the second. She tidied herself away and smelt for the first time, the rich aroma of the stew ready for that night. 

_ Ser Barristan has not returned yet.  _

In his note, he had told her he expected to return early, yet it was already nightfall, and he was still not there. Her stomach turned.  _ What if something has happened? No one knows I am here, how would I ever know except that he would simply never come back?  _ All of a sudden, the warmth of the East vanished and left in its wake shivering cold. She drew her arms around herself and stepped into the inn. 

“Is my father back?” 

The  innkeep looked down towards her and frowned. “I haven’t seen him. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Someone was walking up to the bar, so she moved along and took to the stairs, two at a time.  _ Perhaps he came back without anyone noticing and left me to get along.  _ She unlocked and threw open the door to their rooms. It was empty, just as she’d left it. 

In vain, she called out, but she knew it was pointless. Instead, she dropped down onto the seat by the fire and picked up another book. She’d heard a little of the language and wondered if she’d be able to pick out any words. Yet, the papers would not yield her their tales. Her eyes could not stop themselves from flicking towards the window, and her ears were desperate for noises downstairs. Every passing minute brought her closer to the thought at the back of her head. 

_ Something’s gone wrong. It’s not safe here. He’d want me to leave.  _

But that was all impossible. He had most of their coin, with only a small pouch left for herself, and he took with them his own meagre knowledge of the East and plans of how to traverse it. Besides, he was a knight, and an adult man with experience in the world, skill with his blade and connections long forged. She had nothing but her sewing needle and the short dagger she carried about with her – un-blooded.  _ I’m just a girl – the world is not meant for me, not yet at least.  _ She thought of all her lessons – of dancing and singing, sewing and drawing, of keeping a household and addressing other nobles. None of that meant anything leagues from home with the world seeking her blood.  _ Jon and Robb would know what to do; they would not feel so alone. Even Bran would have an idea, even if he’s young. I was taught to be a Lady, but never to survive.  _

She set the book down. It was pointless. For a while she stood, paced the floor, then she flung herself on her bed and hoped that she would sleep and he would be there again when she woke. But, of course, sleep would not come. Her mind was too busy imagining what had become of her protector even to entertain the idea of resting. Half of her was ready to burst out of the room, rush down the stairs and forge ahead into the fading light in search of him herself. But the sane half of her kept the foolishness at bay. She went to the window. The light was completely gone, and the city had been swept up in the arms of night. Her stomach twisted and growled and, for a second, she remembered the stew that would be ready by now- there would be people down there eating and drinking. She could hear the faint sound of cups  clashing together and cutlery scraping across plates. 

‘ _ You must eat.’  _ Ser Barristan’s voice had found its way in the back of her head. She breathed heavily through her nose and turned to the door.  _ I shall eat, then speak with the  _ _ innkeep _ _. But first I must- _

A hurried knock at the door. 

“Ser B-father!” She called out, nearly forgetting their new identities as she hurried towards the door and unlocked it. Before she could think, it was open and she stepped back to allow her knight to enter and tell her all. Except...she was not met by Barristan Selmy, nor Arstan Whitebeard. In front of her, eyes wide and hands held out, was  Zharra , the serving girl. She rushed inside without a word and pushed the door shut heavily behind her. 

“What is it?” Sansa began quickly.  Zharra had rushed to the window before turning to Sansa’s side of the bed. She picked up the discarded bag and began throwing all she could see into it. Receiving no explanation, Sansa reached a hand forward and laid in against t he young woman’s arm. “ Zharra ?”

“We go.” She muttered, pushing the bag into Sansa’s chest and grasping her wrist. “No time.” With a jolt, they were at the door again, then stumbling together along the dimly lit hall and jumping two steps at a time down the stairs. Something grumbled at the bottom. 

Zharra turned them around, and they went up once more, up into the room and over to the window. She unlocked it with a slight shove and used all her might to force it open. The wood was old and had deteriorated over time, somehow keeping the mechanism from opening more than a crack. Cool air slipped through, but it would go no further.  _ She means us to go through. What it the name o of the Gods is happening?  _ Sansa looked over, there was a roof below, so the fall would not be far. Both planted their feet firmly on the ground and pushed hard on the old pane. It creaked a little but still resisted. Sweat was beginning to spread across Sansa’s forehead. She gritted her teeth together and-

The door burst open, nearly flying back completely on its hinges.  Zharra kept pushing, but Sansa could not help but turn around. Something had struck such sudden fear into the serving girl’s heart, and now she was looking it directly in the face. The great figure of the  Innkeep’s brother blocked her exit, his body filling the doorway. There were others behind him too, smaller men but each brandishing small  knives , glinting sweetly in the evening light.  _ Like Ice did before they- _

She stepped back and plunged her hand into her bag, grasping for the hilt of the dagger and holding it out in front of her. 

The great man laughed. “What are you going to do with that, pretty one? Butter me some bread?” He took a lumbering step forward, and his accomplices now moved to block the door. “Come with me now, and I won’t have to hurt you.” 

She opened her mouth to speak but only croaked out a reply. His men tittered, and she gripped her weapon tighter. She backed away a little more but felt a set of drawers against her leg. The window had not conceded the ground and remained barely open.  Zharra met her gaze and shook her head. 

“ Jiōragon zirȳ !” He shouted behind him. The room soon swarmed with bodies and hands reached forward, grabbing and snatching at her. She swung her knife around, and though one reeled back with a hiss of pain, the others were undeterred and lay their hands upon her. She shrugged the first off but more came and kept her down. She went to scream, but choked as a piece of  fabric ,  hastily ripped from her skirt, was shoved carelessly into her mouth and tied around the back. 

_ Ser Barristan, please, gods. Come back now! Come back- come back- _

She was breathless and frantic, kicking out and groaning but making no progress. While the men bound her and knocked her knife from her hands, she watched on as the giant of a man wrapped a hand around Zharra’s wrist and spat something in her ear. The girl bit something back but a slap across her face, cutting her lip and narrowly missing her eye, kept her quiet. 

_ Gods no- _

“ Mōris bisa lēkia !  kesā daor gūrogon zirȳ .  Issi isse ñuha care.  Henujagon bisa dīnagon se  jorepagon nyke dōrī ūndegon ao arlī!”

The owner had run in, his  eyesocket stained wine-red and blood dripping from his mouth. His eyes darted around the scene and rested finally on his brother, who had turned from his prize. The room erupted in laughter- whatever he had said, it was funny, apparently. She could understand it, though; he was one man facing six. He was unarmed, so much smaller, and already walking with slight limp. 

The great man spat out a glob of phlegm. “Fuck off; this is none of your business.” He was speaking in the common tongue, for her benefit, she supposed. 

“Too long, I’ve suffered you. Now you take it out on not just me but my staff, my guests?” 

“This one is mine.” He held up  Zharra, who, though still standing, had lost her strength. “And the  Westerosi ? She’ll fetch a fine price.” 

_Price? Does he wish to sell me?_   
_“_ You’ve gone too far.” The innkeep took a step forward, he looked between the two of them once more and sniffed. “Now!” 

In a short, sharp movement, he lunged forward and threw himself into his brother’s frame. The men around Sansa darted forward but stopped in their tracks. The  innkeep was stumbling away, clutching at his stomach. Red bloomed across his tunic and spread between his fingers. 

She screamed against the bindings, but it came out as no more than a muffled whimper. Zharra, not yet gagged, shot out a thousand curses but a jab to the jaw sent her backwards and left her lying still. When Sansa reached out over to her, just to see if she still lived, a great hand pressed on her shoulder and forced her to her knees. A finger lifted her chin. 

“Don’t worry, pretty one. She’s used to it. I doubt the same can be said of you.” 

He drew back and winked towards his men. 

_ This truly is a wonderful joke, is it not? The one place I was safe, I’m not safe at all. And the man who was supposed to protect me – probably floating face down in the harbour.  _

The fist came down hard and struck across her cheek. 

_ I should never have left the North.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were curious, I used this website for the translation of the Valyrian!   
> https://lingojam.com/EnglishtoValyrianTranslator


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer - this chapter does include details of trafficking, particularly of a minor. If you don't wish to read ahead, I can assure you it is only discussed directly in this chapter.

“Sansa!” The cry carried over Winterfell, echoing from wall to wall and sweeping across courtyards. Catelyn Stark called again, a bite in her voice, and sighed as she picked up her skirts and set down a corridor. 

“Mother!” A girl of nine years skidded around a corner and nearly fell as she stumbled to a halt. She looked up and found herself face to face with her mother. “I was-” she panted slightly - “just coming to find you.” 

“Were you now?” Catelyn raised her brows and placed a sturdy hand on her daughter’s shoulders. “ So, you weren’t attempting to avoid your lessons with Septa  Mordane ?” 

“Not at all.” She replied, having got her breath back and smiling brightly. “I -”

She was cut off by the sound of more feet pounding along the stone behind them. They both turned and found three boys of the same age and a younger girl tumbling into view. Catelyn Stark crossed her arms across her chest and pressed her lips together. She cleared her throat, and the largest of the three, Robb, looked up and hushed his siblings. 

“And what are you four doing?” She looked between them all. At her eldest Robb first, then her youngest daughter Arya, then at her ward, Theon and the other one – the bastard, Jon. They had come from the same direction Sansa had just come from, she noted. 

“We were trying to find our sister- she was the doe.” Robb began running a hand through his tussled hair. The Greyjoy boy also took the time to compose himself while Jon and Arya continued quietly bickering. “I suppose we found her.” 

Catelyn turned to her eldest daughter. “So, you  _ were  _ playing with them when you were supposed to have your lessons?” 

“I-” Sansa looked over to Robb, but he shrugged hopelessly. 

“I’ve told you Seven-knows how many times that these lessons will be very important to you. Do you not want to learn the woman’s arts with your Septa?” 

Jon and Theon tittered but were soon silenced by the cutting look on the Tully woman’s face. 

“Why don’t they have to have such lessons?” Sansa asked quietly. There was a force within her mother’s stomach she didn’t wish to bring forth. 

Catelyn put her hand on her daughter’s back and led her away from the rest of the rabble who had returned to their games. “They have their own lessons- in swordplay and thing you don’t need to worry yourself with. Trust me; you’ll much prefer this to those rough games the boys like. Ladies don’t play chase or are tardy to their lessons.” 

Sansa looked up at her mother’s stern but encouraging face and nodded.  _ I am different from them. My hair is longer, my body is different, and I am sure I think differently. Mother is right. I am to be somebody’s lady-wife one day. Why should I be running around like a fool? I must be a Lady, not a silly  _ _ child, like _ _ Arya.  _

_ “ _ Are you ready, dear?” Catelyn smoothed down her daughter’s Tully-red hair. 

“I am, mother.” Sansa smiled. She pushed open the door to the schoolroom, and half a dozen young women stared back at her. At the back of the room in a rickety, uncomfortable chair, Septa  Mordane observed her. 

“You’re late, my Lady. Ladies are not late.” 

“I’m sorry, Septa.” She averted her eyes. Septa  Mordane’s looks of contempt were legend and terrifying. “It shall not happen again.” 

“No,” the older woman stood, “it will not. Sit yourself down here, that’s it – there are some words on the paper there that I want you to remember. We’re starting today with some singing, and we will be practising our embroidery later on. Is that clear?” 

“Yes.” Sansa seated herself, and her eyes flicked back and forth across the words before her. She’d learnt her letters with the boys and girls together, but then they’d never looked at lyrics before or turned them into song. It was a sweet song about a Lady calling out to her lover and telling him about the ills of the man she’d been forced to wed. It was straight from her favourite of Old Nan’s tales. She read through them again. 

_ Mother was right; I think I shall enjoy this much more than whatever the boys are doing. They’re too rough and wild, but I must be a Lady – perfect and serene. What need do I have for swords and shields? I am safe here, and my husband will protect me when I leave. What more could I want? _

Sansa Stark awoke in a thin layer of sweat, the sun not yet sprouted from behind the city walls, yet the temperature already far beyond what she was used to.  _ Of course, _ _ I’m hot,  _ she thought as she forced herself up; _I’m_ _ still in my day-clothes.  _ She swept the scratchy blankets from over her, dropped to her feet and – fell back down again. The sudden movement had sent her head in spirals, and she had to take great gulps of air to stop herself from vomiting. It was like she was on the ships again, the floor swaying beneath her as if the very earth had come to life. She ran her hands through her hair and winced as she grazed over her left ear. Her hand came away with the sticky residue of not-quite dried blood, and the part of her head just above stung at the touch. 

_ I don’t - I can’t- I- _

In the back of her mind, a fist swung around, smacking across her left side and sending her into the blackness with a single swipe. The ground had not just swayed then, but it had been completely stolen from under her and for a great time she’d been falling. Then she’d been in Winterfell, running the corridors with Arya and the boys close behind. Then she was awake. 

It came back to her then- the day before playing out from its sweet beginnings as she began her sewing in the inn’s backrooms to the lumbering man storming in, and finally to him returning that night, putting a knife in his own brother and sending the sweet  Zharra across the room. Sansa choked out a cry.  _ I’m not even in the inn anymore.  _ The room, when she really looked, was nothing like the comfortable room Ser Barristan had arranged for them. It was just large enough to fit the one cot bed and table, currently laid with a pitcher of clear liquid and a crust of bread. There was no fireplace laden with logs, or the cushioned chairs and the unintelligible books. The was no wardrobe with her nice grey dress, nor could she see the bag  Zharra had hastily packed with her small load of belongings. She craned her neck to look through the long thin window above her. She could just see the perfect sky above them, bluer every moment as the sun rose. 

Finding her head no longer so violently spinning, Sansa tried again to stand and fell upon the door. She tried the handle, though she knew it would be locked, and instead took to rapping heavily on it.

A shuffling of feet – the sound of a key in a lock. 

She nearly fell out of the room as the door was swung away from her, and instead found arms around her, keeping her upright and manoeuvring her back towards the bed. She sat, and looked up.

A woman stood above her, older than her mother, and already with greying hair though her eyes were still bright and quick, looking over her. A simple, flowing covering was swept around her shoulders, and beneath, she wore a simple smock dress the colour of milk pudding. She placed a hand on Sansa’s head and softly pushed it to one side, pursing her lips and inspecting the ear. 

“Does it hurt?” She let go and held her hands together in front of her. “I must apologise for the treatment. I tell him not to be so rough, but that is just how he is.” She sighed heavily. 

_ She’s Westerosi. _

“A little,” Sansa admitted softly, keeping her eyes down and her fists balled. “Who are you? Where is this?” 

The woman straightened and smiled. “They call me Aunt, though I have nieces or nephews to speak of. You’re in my house, in Pentos.” 

“W-why am I here?” Sansa leant slightly back, away from the woman’s touch. She was like every wet-nurse, kitchen maid, cleaner and scullery wench all rolled into one, and Sansa could never forget their shrill, commanding cries. 

“Oh, of course, you don’t know.” She sat herself down beside Sansa and neatly folded her hands in her lap. “You’ve got a great opportunity here, dear one. This afternoon  your life will change for the better, I promise it. Word was put out about you just last night, and we’ve already had a dozen interested parties put their names forward. We’ll dress you up fine, sort this mess-” she indicated Sansa’s hair- “and then we’ll present you to them. Oh, I’d be thrilled if I were you. Some of the names on that list? To imagine you’ll be going off with one by the end of the day.” Aunt lowered her voice. “If they pay, that is. It’s the wealthy ones that always try and trick you out of -”

Sansa shot up and across the room. “Pay? You wish to sell me?” She remembered the night before, the great man talking about the price she would get. She felt sick. “There’s been a mistake. I’m with my father. You must take me back to the inn.”

Aunt stood and went to rest her hand on Sansa’s face; she ducked away. “Poor child, did you not know? Your father was the one who told us where to find you. He came here, days ago, and the arrangements were made.” Her face was ashen with genuine sympathy. “Come on, dear. You know what men think of us? He couldn’t wait to be rid of you.” 

_ Does she think me fool enough to believe that? If she knew who I was, or why I was here, she would know her lies make absolutely no sense.  _ She nearly smiled. She wanted to place her hands upon her hips and laugh at the woman’s misunderstanding, but she realised that would make  _ her  _ the fool.  _ She doesn’t know who I am; I have to keep it that way, or I’ll be sold back to the  _ _ Lannisters _ _ before I can take another breath. If she thinks I am a poor girl set aside by her careless father, then that is what I’ll be.  _

She shook her head hard. “It can’t be; my father would never do that. He would never sell me into slavery!”

Aunt’s soft features turned in an instant. Her eyes burned black, and her lips pressed tightly together. She stepped forward, barely an inch between them. 

“You must never say that word. It is a blight on this good business. Slavery is a horror and is forbidden in the city. If I hear that word again I shall-”

“Why? Are you not selling me?” She piped up, somewhat surprised by her own voice. “You sell me to one of your ‘parties’ and pocket the fee, do you not? In Westeros, that is slavery.” 

The had cut across her cheek and split her lip before she could jump out of the way. Aunt seethed and rubbed at her palm. 

“I told you not to say that word. The men who come here, and women too, they’ll give me money for you, yes, but that is for the service I provide, sourcing talent, not for you  perse . And when you go off with them, they will give you a piece of silver a week, so you cannot say that you are not being paid.” 

Sansa shrunk back, cradling her cheek and tasting the metallic blood upon her tongue. She glanced over to the window, to the unfamiliar houses and shops of a land she did not know. She wondered if there came a chance to escape, would she even know where to go?  _ Ser Barristan may be dead, floating in the harbour, or captured by a pirate or-  _ she did not wish to imagine the many millions of reasons he had been kept from her the day before.  _ If he’s dead, I have nothing in the city, no friends, no money and no means of defending myself. I could not go home, nor try and find the  _ _ Dragonqueen _ _ for myself. My only hope would be to present myself to the Prince, tell him who I truly am and pray to every God that he believes me and doesn’t choose to send me into the wrong hands. Even then, how would I escape? My options are to flee _ _ and risk it all in Pentos or remain here and become a slave in all but name.  _ Aunt was saying something, but the words passed straight over her. The world was spinning again, her future developing ahead of her, a future of suffering, of pain and fear that she had no choice but to submit to.

“There’s clothing on that chair, put it on, and I’ll send my girl in to ready you, alright?” 

Sansa said nothing.

“Alright?” Aunt repeated, a warning in her tone. 

Sansa forced herself into the present and nodded her head. Her mouth would not work. It wished to scream and plead and beg and sob – but she was silent. The words had been stripped from her such as sharply as her chances with Ser Barristan. She had hated him at first for insisting she left Westeros, yet it hadn’t lasted long. His heart was too big for it to have been malicious, and she knew that he was doing what was best. She had grown fond of the old knight and enjoyed their time together.  _ That is all over now.  _

The woman had gone with a tut and another reminder for her to dress. 

She stripped and dressed in silence, pulling on the scratchy gown over her underclothes. Well-practised hands pulled together the ties at the back and finished with the buttons up the front. It was a deep green, but not the green of autumn trees, but that of near-dead grass on the verge of turning a rust-brown and cracking underfoot. 

Minutes later, the room's silence was broken by a small woman of middling age who said nothing but swept her into a chair and began tying back her hair into the  Pentoshi style. Her hands found their way next to Sansa’s face, applying red powder to her cheeks and lips. From a bag around her neck, she retrieved a small glass vile and dabbed it against her wrist and neck. The scent of sweets erupted around her in a noxious cloud. She stifled a choke. The women then hurried away without another word, closing the door lightly behind her and leaving Sansa alone. 

She sat. Her eyes were at level with the small, dust-covered mirror. She hadn’t been able to tear them away as the maid had gone about her work, and now, even alone, she remained where she was, entranced by her own reflection. 

A face looked back at her. She recognised the way she sat, the red of her hair, and the long thin neck Jeyne had always said was her best feature, but it was the face that she did not know. Sansa Stark was always pale, yet a speckling of freckles had always coloured her complexion and the brightness of her eyes, as blue like a winter sea, drew the attention of many a stable boy and noble lordling alike. Now the freckles could do nothing to save her appearance. Without her normal castle-food, rich and filling, she noticed her cheeks were less full – in fact, her entire face appeared to have sunken inwards. Her eyes, too, were dull and deep-set in dark circles reminding her of many sleepless nights and waking nightmares. Even with the façade of colour drawn on in reds and pinks, a ghost stared back at her, empty and as cold as a corpse. 

It was not the face of Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. It was not the face of Elize Aerin, daughter of Arstan Whitebeard. It was the face of a slave girl, of a girl who needed no name. 

_ Whatever than monstrous woman says, they mean to sell me, so I must be a slave. It doesn’t matter if they press a thousand coins into my hands for my work; if they’d paid for me already, they wouldn’t be keen on letting me free. I am property. Property of someone else. It doesn’t matter who.  _ She tried to picture what sort of wealthy individuals would be arriving that afternoon, looking over with her scrutinising eyes and putting in their bids like she  was a horse at market. 

“Slavery is the cruellest thing man invented.” Ned Stark had once said before he’d ridden off to capture a slaver.  _ I did not know what he meant. I thought killing, surely, was far worse, or torture, perhaps. But now- now the Gods wish me to learn for myself.  _ She wondered what possible crime she had committed to earn such malice from those she’d prayed to all her life.  _ Did I not spend hours every week in the Sept, singing with all my heart and lighting every candle to each of the seven, even the grisly Stranger? Did I not say my thanks before feasts and when the harvest was strong? Was I not respectful to the Northern Gods as well? I never mocked them or shunned them. I went to the weirwood many times for solace and peace. What could I have done better to save myself from this fate?  _

The Gods, in the songs and stories and poems and pictures, were always just. They were strict to heretics and horrid monsters, but kind to the innocent, casting their blessing upon the most devout. Sansa felt no kind hand of the Mother or protecting sword-arm of the Father in that room. The Maiden had left her vulnerable, and the Smith did not step in to lend her his strength. The Warrior, who was the most chivalrous of all, had let a princess go un-rescued, and the Crone had turned upon her and given her up to the world of men. That left the Stranger. She felt the chill of their presence wherever she went. She moved with their dark shadow upon her back like a brand only for her to see. All the other Gods of the Seven had abandoned her, and only their cold grasp remained.

A horse whinnied outside of her window as it trotted along the street, unaware and therefore in bliss.  _ They’ll be here soon.  _ The horse-sale would begin, and she would be paraded before them, inspected all over. 

_ And then-  _

She did not know. The word ‘slave’ meant so little to her; it was as far from her life as things could get. Girls her age worked; she’d seen many. But they were paid a little and treated fairly as far as she’d seen. They went to work by choice and were free to leave if the will came over them. Their work was menial, but at the end of the day, it was over. They cooked, cleaned, dressed, washed, swept, tidied – whatever needed to be done.  _ What is it that a slave does?  _ What would those men expect from her?  _ Is it because I am so young that they want me?  _

Again, she felt sick. Images overtook her mind she fought to cast out, failing every time. She saw herself passed among those men. She saw them beat her if she faltered or paused. She saw their leering eyes travelling up and down her, demanding that she turned around, forcing her to- 

The door opened without a knock, and a hand seized her arm. 

“What in every hell are you doing? A  vain one, eh? Staring into the mirror like a fool? Bloody noble girls, think  you’re made of silver, don’t you?” 

Sansa did not turn. She knew the aunt woman had come to fetch her. Time had passed, but she did not know how. She was forced to her feet, and fingernails dug into the flesh of her wrist as they left the room and turned down an impossible labyrinth of corridors with endless doors.  _ Is there another girl just behind? Are there thousands like me waiting to be sold to a stranger?  _ She walked where she was bid and did not stop, although her mind begged to her throw open every  door they passed to see what was within. She carried on.  _ Resisting will only earn me a beating. I might as well start  _ _ thinking _ _ like a slave now, I’ll be one before long.  _

The morning was well underway by the time Ser Barristan Selmy returned to the Inn. Beneath one arm, he carried a hamper of presents – an apology of sorts, for leaving his charge on her own for an entire day, far longer than he’d expected. 

The merchant had admitted him to his manse but kept him waiting in a bare reception room for most of the day until the sun began its descent into the sea. Others were there too, each with their own stories that were at least something to fill the time, but they shuffled away one by one after they were called. Barristan found himself alone and feeling a fool for wagering so much on the knowledge of one trader. 

Eventually, a tanned page poked his head around a door and beckoned him to follow, leading him to a large, luxuriously furnished study – the public audience room of the merchant who was currently puffing smoke from his mouth and ruffling through papers on his  desk. He looked him up and down with the eyes of a wise, aged man and quirked an eyebrow. 

“Sit, ser.” He gestured toward a vacant seat and sat himself down as well. He leant forwards and folded his hands together. “What is it you need?” 

And  so began an hour of talk. Ser Barristan explaining his unique position in as little detail as possible and the merchant badgering him for answers and feigning confusion to force him to repeat himself. The knight balled a fist in irritation at the man’s cocky demeanour, like he was a King, but reminded himself of the importance of the meeting. Only when the merchant told all he knew would Barristan be content enough to leave. He carried on. 

Eventually, the merchant ceded his knowledge, and Ser Barristan rose to leave. A heavy hand forced him back into his seat. 

“Now, I have done you a favour, and you must do me one. If you get to the  Dragonqueen and her company, I need you to-” 

When Ser Barristan finally escaped the manse, it was already the middle of the night, and he swayed through the streets after being seated all day like some sodden drunk. His mind was flooded, not by drink but by the news that had been brought to him.  _ Sansa will be asleep by now,  _ he considered, trying to recall the way back to the inn but finding the maps in his head twisted and curled. I _ will get back to her before she wakes; there will be no difference.  _

Instead of returning to that inn, he found himself in a nother – the nearest alehouse with rooms available for that night. He stumbled up the stairs and collapsed into the straw bed, thinking already of where they would go next and how in the seven hells they were going to get to  Qarth . 

He’d woken late and scurried to dress and hurry back onto the streets. He walked at double speed towards the inn and released a great sigh when he entered and found the morning food already cleared away. His stomach turned in hunger, and he looked for the  innkeeper to see if there was anything leftover he could feast upon. 

It was then that he noticed the room was empty. More than that, doors had been torn from their hinges and glasses behind the bar had been smashed across the floor. 

_ Sansa. _

She was left alone in a side-room, the lock clicking distinctly behind her. There was nothing much of consideration in the room. It was well decorated and focused around the white marble fireplace at the centre of the longest wall. Cushioned long-seats were stationed around it, and vases were set down on its mantle, filled with many brightly coloured, sweetly fragranced flowers. Sansa knew what kind of room this was. Across from her was another door, where, just faintly, voices could be heard. Beyond would be a large chamber, well suited to socialising and holding audiences. This room, smaller and comfortable, was for those wishing to escape the hubbub for a moment. It was for private talks around the roaring fire and little flirtations away from every eye. It was the room of gossip and where all knew the most interesting moments of any event would take place. It was scandal and respite all rolled into one. 

But not anymore.  _ Now it is only this – the sale of a person. It can never be anything else.  _

She could not sit – not even the comforting lull of the seats drowning in cushions to tempt her. Everything was sharp, and everything had a sting. She waited on her feet, arms crossed tightly across herself, legs taking her back and forth across the room. She tried both doors, but of course, they were locked and too thick for her to hear clearly what was being said in the room beyond. 

She breathed.  _ You are trapped. You must accept the deal and move along quickly. You have no time to linger in melancholy and feel sorry for yourself. Think of what your brothers would say, of what your father is surely thinking now.  _

She stopped still and nodded her head. She had never known sure dire chances, but it served nothing at all if she spent her life thinking on what could’ve been or dreaming of impossible escapes and rescues.  _ I am on my own from now on.  _ It was an uneasy feeling. 

The second door opened, wood squeaking slightly on the floorboards. Sansa’s eyes flicked up immediately, and she found  a familiar face looking back at her. 

“ Zharra ?” She whispered, stepping closer and reaching out a hand. The young maid of the inn lowered her warm eyes to the floor, her face tight and restrained. 

“Come with me. They’re waiting.” She mumbled in the harsh, uncertain tone of someone speaking a language they did not know. The words had been pressed on her, meaningless, and she passed them on in a single low voice. 

Sansa moved closer and felt her stomach turn as  Zharra raised her head an inch. Her face was split apart by a still fresh gash that ran from the top of one cheek to the bottom of the other. An ointment had been applied to disguise it – fine nobles did not need to see such vulgarity – but blood still seeped beneath the cover. Sansa tried to grasp hold of the girl, but she jumped away and shook her head. 

“Come.” 

She looked behind her, at the door she had been brought in through – locked tight. There was no hope there, not even enough to warrant her forlorn look. She turned back and nodded her head, following on and swallowing hard. 

“Gods, no!” Ser Barristan Selmy stumbled to his knees and beat the floor with a fist. The room he’d rented had been torn apart – every cupboard and drawer thrown open, the looking glass smashed, the table sent halfway across the room, and its tray of cups and wine scattered. His hands searched the wreckage, praying to the Seven for any sign in the carnage of what had happened here. 

All he found was blood. The first pool was impossible to miss – sitting just by the door with more blood smeared against the wall. Then, when he looked harder, he found more across the room, on the corner of one of the sets of drawers and a small puddle just beside. He cursed aloud. Whatever had happened in that room, there had been many people, some injured and others doing the injuring. They had come with an intent to destroy and a lack of care for who might get in their way. 

_ But there are no bodies.  _ Given the blood at the door, at least one had been hit probably fatally, yet the entire inn was empty. Those who had been staying there had cleared away in haste, and the innkeeper and his maid were gone as well. 

_ I cannot stay here either.  _ The silence drove into him like red-hot iron. He picked himself from the floor, swearing again as his eyes involuntarily cast across the mess, and stormed from the room, down the stairs, and into the main chamber of the inn. 

The sound of a sword being unsheathed shook him from his frantic single-mindedness. 

“Who’s there?” A low voice called out from across the room. Barristan drew his own sword and pointed it towards the figure, shadowed by the light streaming through a window behind him. 

“What happened here?” The knight moved closer, testing his grip on his sword. “Do you know who did this, where they might be?” 

“Who are you?” The man stepped forward, enough for Barristan to see his face. It was plain, yet the man was dressed finely with a chain around a thin neck and golden rings upon his fingers. His knife was small, but its hilt was bone white and carved intricately with a snake-like design. “What business do you have here?” 

The knight dropped his sword. “There’s been some kind of attack. I was staying in a room upstairs, but I did not return last night. I only just came upon it in this state. What do you know?”

“It was the Ox. You heard of him? All I was told is that he came here last night, killed his brother, and took whatever he could find. My master hoped it wasn’t true, but-” he gestured around him, “it’s worse than I expected.” 

“Your master? And who is this Ox, where does he live?” Barristan leant against one of the few tables still upright and tapped his fingers against it. 

“ Illyrio Mopatis. The Magister. This inn is one of his; he'll be devasted to know what has happened in here.”

_ The Magister. I have seen his manse and spotted his carriage through the streets a few times. He was to be my next port of call.  _

_ “ _ And this Ox? What do you know of him?” He pushed on. 

The man shrugged. “He’s well known for what he is – giant of a man, unsavoury. My master used to work with him to acquire his house-servants, but when a few too many arrived with cracked ribs and bruises all over,  Illyrio moved on. He and his sister are in the trade.” 

_ The trade of people – alive and well in Pentos despite the Prince’s ban. And now Sansa has become caught up in it. If her identity is discovered, or if she’s sold on, I'll have lost her for good.  _

_ “ _ You know where he’ll be, or his sister?” 

The Magister’s man danced from foot to foot. “They move often, I know a few places, but I must get back to the manse. Why is it you want to find the Ox? Did he take something valuable?” 

_ How much is this information worth, he means.  _

_ “ _ My daughter.” 

“Ah.” He dropped his head and swallowed. “If I take you to the Magister, he might help you find him?” 

“And would he see me, immediately? You understand, time is short?”

“The Magister is a busy man. I cannot storm in and push you ahead of those who have been waiting for an audience already. You’ll have to-”

“Wait to see him? I’ve had enough waiting in this city to go around, thank  you, young man but you return to your master, tell him what has happened here. I’ll ask around.”

He bowed his head. “Thank you, ser, good luck in your search. May the Lord of Light go with you.” 

Barristan raised a hand in a farewell as the boy scurried away and out of sight. He took a look around again and sighed. 

_ Someone in this city must know where this Ox will be. Else it’ll be like searching for a needle in a haystack.  _ He shook his head and left the inn, shielding his face from the suddenly blinding sun overhead.  _ For the sake of Eddard Stark, let me find her, let me not already be too late.  _

Three men and one woman spread across the room. Several lounging across long chairs and others tittering by the window the furthest away. In the  Pentoshi meaning of the word, they were all noble, dressed finely in all numbers of colours with their hair dyed an equally vivid array. That is, bar one. A single man, sprawled across a seat, was decked out only in black. They had been sipping at clear liquid in crystalware, lost in conversation or basking in the beauty of the dancehall they occupied, but when the door clicked shut behind them, every face turned upon her, and sentences hung unfinished in the air. 

“Thank you,  Zharra .” Aunt watched on from the side of the room but stepped forward and waved her servant away, taking her place besides Sansa and placing a hand on her lower back. “Honoured guests, this is the girl I have spoken of.  Westerosi and of noble birth. Already tall but will grow as tall as many men in time. She is a rare find, this far from home.” 

“ Indeed, she is.” A woman was the first to approach. She was short and plump but adorned with so many jewels, Sansa feared she’d topple over. Her hair, dyed a striking pink, lay in carefully placed ringlets about her shoulders. Her eyes, small and blue, looked over her, and a hand lifted her chin carefully. “This hair, is it natural?” 

“It is,” Aunt replied, touching the top of Sansa’s head like a mother would do. “It is more common in her lands, but even then, a rarity.” 

The round woman nodded her head, pursing her lips in thought. “I must say she would fit in well with the other girls. I have a  never-ending stream of clients searching for something ‘different’, whatever that means. Perhaps she is it-” 

“You would confine her to a pillow house, Solza?” A man stepped forward, darker in complexion and sporting an orange beard. “This one is noble, didn’t you hear? It would be a crime for her to be anywhere but a palace. Our Prince would be fond of such a find.” There was a tittering of laughter across the room at a joke she didn’t understand. 

_ But I do understand the rest of it. A  _ _ pillowhouse _ _ is their name for a brothel, is it not?  _ _ Solza _ _ wishes me to become a brothel whore, and this man wishes me to become a palace whore. I won’t be either; I cannot be either. They cannot have me. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’d rather cast myself from a window then be used by any man with enough coin in his purse.  _

“ Gaoman daor jaelagon syt zirȳla . Issa  tolī ābrītsos ,  nākostōbā . Kessa  daor gaomagon syt ao hae sȳrī .” A second man spoke out in the rich Valyrian tongue. Whatever he had said irritated Aunt, who tensed up at Sansa’s side. 

“ Jurnegon syt aōla .  issa quptenka daor se  kostōba ,  Vesterozia riñi issi .” She beckoned him forwards. The man leant closer but shook his head firmly, and Aunt sighed. 

“Viggo? What do you say?” She turned to the last of the company. A man of middling age who, while the others had stood and craned to look over her, remained seated, one leg thrown casually across the other. He was the one in all black, like the Black Brothers,  but, unlike the men of the Night’s Watch Sansa had seen, his beard and hair  were immaculately kept, and his clothes appeared like new. Unlike the others, his hair was a deep brown, unsullied by gaudy dyes and jewels. With one hand across the back of the chair, he nodded his head. 

“She is fine. But how did you come across her? Why would a noble  Westerosi girl come to you?” His voice was deep, cutting. 

“Her father gave her up, wished her to go on to better things,” Aunt replied, keeping herself contained. 

“Her father gave her up? For the measly bag of  coin you offer?” He rose to his feet but directed all his attention on the woman. “Explain to me this. If she was as wonderful and as much of a rarity as you preach, why would her father bring her leagues from home and sell her on? I don’t know much of the Western lands, but I haven’t heard of any noble house that would cast its own away, born a boy or girl, for so little.” 

The others, at least the two who understood the language, turned upon Aunt with the same expression, waiting for her response. She pierced Sansa with great dark eyes as if to pin it all upon her. 

“M-Master Viggo. I can assure you; there is no trickery here. If you are not interested, let these others make their offers and shut your mouth.” She placed one hand on her hip, but the waver in her voice turned authority to laughable nerves. 

_ Perhaps no one will want me at all, if they think I am soiled somehow. If they believe they are being fooled.  _ She thought as a new burst of hope settled over her. In a rush of sudden energy, she opened her mouth, but Aunt got in first. 

“She’s-”

“I never said I wasn’t interested.” The one called Viggo interrupted, casting a dark look over her, “I just want to make sure I know what I’m buying.” 

A smile quickly returned to the woman’s face. “Nothing but the best for you, my best clients. Always, always.” 

A short silence ensued as each wrinkled their noses and foreheads in thought. Aunt, however, hovered around them and made small noises to hurry them along. The smile plastered across her face had grown sickly sweet and dripped with her impatience to get the whole process over with. 

_ I think I am with her. Waiting is abysmal. Let my fate me decided and the dye cast- there is no point in prolonging it any longer.  _

It began. The woman started them off; her lips curled together after she placed her bid. Sansa was not aware of what the numbers meant, but she could tell Aunt was unimpressed by her loud sniff. Next, the first man spoke, offering a higher amount, still not to her captor’s likening. It went back and forth for a little while, the coins gradually weighing down heavily in the slaver’s pockets. As the two called out over one another, their faces took on reddish-purplish tinges that, in another life, she may have giggled at. Now she watched them in their dance with disinterest.  _ What does it matter if I’m a whore of a brothel or a palace? They shall treat me just the same and pay me nothing. A whore is a whore, and it is what I’ll be unless there is some great miracle.  _

_ Ser Barristan.  _ Her mind flicked once more to her knight companion.  _ He might live yet and be on his way to rescue me. If these two continue their bickering forever, he may get here in time.  _ She no longer pictured him face down in the ocean, but on a horse, tearing down the door and sweeping her up and away from the brutes. It was a scene from a storybook, but it was a sweet thought to entertain her while her price was weighed. Yet, she could  not allow herself to truly  hope for such as miraculous end. It was nearly impossible for her to be found.  _ And yet-  _ Her eyes rested on the main door. Sansa Stark waited. 

“You’re certain this is the place?” Ser Barristan was crouched in a row of bushes, sword drawn and peering into an open window several floors up in the hope of seeing a sign of life. 

“I’ve been watching it for a moon. I should hope it’s the place.” A young woman was just ahead, concealed with him in the shrubbery. Every few moments, she lunged forward and dared to step a little closer to the arched doorway into the back of the villa. 

That morning, Ser Barristan had moved quickly and found himself back at the harbour.  _ If anyone knows anything, they’ll be here.  _ He’d moved from stall to stall, moored ship to ship, but had little luck. All knew the Ox, but he was associated with several houses, manses and villas. None were his own, but he was a welcome guest in all. He knew he did not have the time to check them all, but he’d get nowhere asking around all day. As he began to pick out the path to the Magister’s manse, a figure, hooded, stepped in front of him and raised a short sword, well-honed. 

The young woman had heard his queries and had grown suspicious of this  Westerosi stranger asking questions about a notorious slaver and murderer. The knight explained his purpose; to find and kill the Ox if needed, not to do business, and she put herself forward to help. 

“ Balyra .” She spoke bluntly as they walked, introducing herself as an agent of the Prince, specially chosen to keep an eye on the slaving business and put a stop to it where possible. “This is not as easy as it was made out to me.” She took no amusement in her plight.  The trading of people fell heavily upon her shoulders, and it was far too large a burden for any one person, nor perhaps, two. 

Yet, they went on.  Balyra had tracked the Ox to one of his favourite haunts, but had to be certain there were slaves along with him, or else she’d lead the Prince’s men on a wasted mission. With the knowledge that at least one girl had been taken, she leapt at the chance and led him to the villa on the edge of the centre of fine holds. They fell into the bushes and awaited their chance. 

They’d drawn a little closer, by the back entrance were several litters and horses were lined up, ready to leave in an instant. They passed through the small courtyard, keeping low and pressed against the wall until they reached the spot below the open window. 

“Help me up?”  Balyra nodded upwards, and Ser Barristan got her meaning. He cradled his hands together to make a small step, and, with her weight on his back, she stepped onto it and hauled herself up and into the room beyond. Inside, she must’ve landed gently, for he heard no sound of tumbling or crashing and had to wait just a minute before the backdoor clicked open, and he was beckoned through. 

“No, I cannot. It is too much  Solza . You take her; she's not even worth that.” 

The plump woman grinned broadly. “You are certain, old friend? Not even a little more for such a jewel?” 

“Take her.” He called out gruffly. “She’ll last a day with your other girls.” 

She shook her head and leant forward. “Do not listen to him; they’ll take care of you. As will I, if you do your share.” 

Aunt cleared her throat. “Is that it then? You concede?” 

He’d sat heavily down upon a chair. “I concede, you’ve exhausted me, Solza.” 

“Well then,” the trader clapped her hands together in triumph. “Solza, you’ve-” 

“Wait a moment!” 

Sansa’s eyes shot around across the room. Her mind had wandered while the numbers that meant nothing to her had  bounced back and forth, but now another voice broke her dream. The one called Viggo, the dark one who had looked at her with such derision, had spoken from his seat. 

“ Forty -six thousand.”

“Forty-”  Solza’s mouth hung open. 

“That’s what I said. You wish to go on?” 

The woman thought a moment and swallowed hard. “I’ll go on. Fifty thousand!” 

_ Gods I cannot stand here much longer like a prisoner in the queue for the block. Let them make their mind up soon or – or let me be rescued. Ser Barristan, I’m here. What’s taking you so long?  _

_ “ _ This way- voices,”  Balyra whispered, holding her hand up to halt him and turn him towards a simple-looking oak door. At first, he heard nothing, but pressing himself closer, he too could make out the soft murmur of low voices, men but a woman too. 

“The main hall must be through here.” He breathed out.  _ This is where Sansa is- I'm feet away. I have not betrayed her father quite yet. “ _ Are you ready?” 

Balyra clutched her sword, ready to swipe. “Gods, yes.” 

She took hold of the doorknob and turned, both glad to see it move with no resistance. She held it there, released a breath and nodded. He replied in same. She threw it open. 

“You are a cruel one, Viggo!”  Solza threw up her arms. “I had her then, but you must come in and take her away. What do you want her for anyway? You know I cannot pay that much.” 

The man walking in shadow had forced himself to his feet for the reignited bidding. While the woman had grown redder and droplets of sweat rolled down her cheeks, he had remained calm, crossing his arms over his chest and slouching on one leg. He smirked at her displeasure. 

“So, you concede?” 

“I-” she turned to Aunt and pointed a finger. “Do something. Stop him.” 

Aunt shrugged. Sansa could only imagine the glee passing through the great woman at the thought of the price that had built up. “It is not my business. He has put down his fee, if you cannot match it, you must concede, and the girl is his.” 

_ I am not his. I will never be his. I do not know who I belong to, but it is certainly not a stranger from Pentos.  _

_ “ _ Then- then, I concede.”  Solza stepped back and murmured something under her breath. 

_ But I am his. He won me. I am his. I am his. I am - _

_ “ _ What is this?” Ser Barristan searched the dank room, squinting in the low lights provided only by nearly wasted away candles. “Where is the sale?” 

Three men and a woman were huddled around a table, pictured cards in their hands and coins spread before each of them. The Ox, Ser Barristan guessed by his size, was holding up his hands,  Baylra’s knife pressed hard against his throat, and spluttered a laugh. 

“Not here!” He choked  out, and his face split open in a malicious grin. “Not with me!” 

“His sister-” the knight spoke aloud.  _ She’s not here. She’s with his sister. Curse him. Curse the Gods. Curse me and curse them all.  _

He met  Balyra’s eyes and nodded. She drew the blade cleaning across his throat, and he expired, slumped across his table in a growing puddle of blood. 

Balyra looked over at him. “What’s next? I can show you where his sister might be. We can -” 

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “It’s too late. She’s gone.” 

_ She’s gone. _

Aunt grabbed hold of Viggo's forearm and shook it heartily. 

“Sold!”


End file.
